


A collection of eighties love songs

by redsnake05



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Substance Abuse, Touring, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some love stories fizzle out in a haze of missed chances and regrets, while others break under rejection and denial. When Bob and Spencer meet, they are bruised around the edges, tired and lonely, but they find something in each other that's worth holding on to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A collection of eighties love songs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 Bandom Big Bang

**March 2004, Las Vegas **

Spencer first met Brendon in a garage, on a lazy afternoon. Spencer's hand slipped a little on his sticks as the boy peeked out from behind Brent, waving a little and smiling a big, dorky smile. Spencer was too stunned to smile as Brent pushed him forward.

"This is Brendon," he said. "He plays the guitar and keyboards." Brendon waved again, and smiled some more.

"Hi," he said.

"Brendon, this is Ryan." Brent waved his hand towards Ryan, who looked at Brendon with an expressionless face before looking back at Spencer with a hint of a quizzical smile. Spencer flushed and held his hand out over the drum kit for Brendon to shake when Brent turned to him. "And this is Spencer."

"Nice to meet you," said Spencer, ignoring the quirk of Ryan's eyebrows that was just in his peripheral vision.

"It's so nice to meet you too," said Brendon, grasping Spencer's hand like a lifeline. Spencer curled his fingers around Brendon's, ignoring the little jolt of pleasure that the casual contact gave him. Brendon's palm was a little sweaty, but Spencer didn't care; he was pretty sure his was too. Brendon seemed to realise that he was just holding onto Spencer's hand now and let go rapidly. "Nice to meet all of you, I mean. Thanks for letting me come along. This is so cool." He touched the tip of one finger to the edge of one of Spencer's cymbals, then snatched his hand back as if he expected to be reprimanded. Spencer smiled at him, one of his wide, goofy smiles, and Brendon smiled back with an edge of shyness.

Spencer wasn't sure how long he sat there, wrapped up in Brendon, but Ryan's loud throat clearing broke the spell. Spencer turned his head to see him hiding a smile, though Brent seemed oblivious, merely sitting on the couch in the corner and fiddling with his bass, not looking at anyone else.

"Can you play something for us, Brendon?" Ryan asked. His smile turned into a smirk, and he added, "For all of us, I mean."

"Yeah, I can do that," said Brendon, backing away from the drum kit and turning to pick up his guitar case. He stumbled over his own feet a little, and Ryan raised his brows at Spencer. Spencer's cheeks burned under the scrutiny from his best friend. Brendon fished out his guitar and tuned it competently. Ryan put all his attention on Brendon once the other boy started playing, and Spencer listened too.

Later, when Brent and Brendon had gone inside to get a drink, Brendon already talking happily about how awesome it was to be in a band as they went through the door, Spencer turned from his contemplation of the cymbal Brendon had touched to find Ryan laughing quietly to himself as his fingers moved over the strings of his guitar. Spencer watched him for a moment before he realised what he was playing, then he threw a drumstick, blushing fiercely as Ryan ducked and laughed harder.

"_I've been waiting for a girl like you_," sang Ryan, "_to come into my life_." Spencer sent the other drumstick flying and Ryan stopped. "Seriously, dude," he said, "you're gonna have to wear white, because I don't think it's Brendon's colour."

"I hate you, shut the fuck up," hissed Spencer, as Brendon came back in. Brendon bounced over to them.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, smiling happily at them both. Spencer couldn't help but smile back.

"Do you like white, Brendon?" asked Ryan, and Spencer nearly choked, sending him a glare.

"No, not so much," Brendon answered, "but I could totally rock lavender." Spencer did choke, slipping off his chair and digging round under his kit for his spare sticks. He glanced up to find Brendon looking down at him, a kind of baffled look on his face. He smiled again, and, seriously, he had never smiled this much around anyone before. Brendon's face broke into an answering grin and Ryan kind of snorted. He played the first chords of 'Sexual Healing', singing along with his accompaniment.

Brendon whirled around, doing a kind of a shimmy and a little two-step that should have looked ridiculous. Spencer popped his head up over the level of the drums, watching for a few moments in fascination, until Ryan dropped the melody, laughing too hard to concentrate on the chords. Spencer launched another drumstick at his head.

"You can't even fucking play," he growled. "Are we going to have a fucking practice or not?"

Brent came back through the door to the house, picking up one of Spencer's drumsticks and twirling it lazily. "Three sticks, Spence?" he asked. "What did Ryan do this time?"

"Nothing," said Spencer. "Can we just practice, please?"

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**April 2005, Las Vegas**

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Spencer glared right back, not giving an inch. "I don't care if wearing black to a My Chemical Romance concert is compulsory, Ryan. I want to wear this t-shirt," he said.

"It's pink," hissed Ryan. "You'll stick out like dog's balls."

"You're always telling me not to conform to social expectations," retorted Spencer, taking vindictive pleasure in repeating Ryan's words from the day before.

"I didn't mean for you to take me seriously right before I'm going to get to see Gerard Way in person," said Ryan.

"Along with thousands of other screaming fangirls," said Spencer dismissively. "You'll be grateful when my pink t-shirt makes us stand out from the crowd."

Brendon poked his head round the door. "I knocked," he said, "but I think you were arguing too loudly to hear me."

"Aha," said Ryan. "Brendon will back me up. Tell Spencer that he can't wear that pink t-shirt to the concert."

Brendon blinked and looked at Spencer. Spencer blushed and looked down at his feet. He hated Ryan with a vengeance sometimes, putting him on the spot and making him the object of Brendon's scrutiny, even as a part of him craved Brendon's attention.

"Spencer always looks pretty," said Brendon, licking his lips and looking nervous, like he always did when he was between Ryan and Spencer. He hated it when they fought, Spencer knew.

"Do you want to look pretty at the concert, Spencer, or would you rather not... how did you put it yesterday? 'Set yourself up for being ridiculed', didn't you say?"

"That's completely different, you wanker," said Spencer. He shot Ryan a glance, trying to make him shut up using just the power of his brain. "We weren't talking about t-shirts."

"What were you talking about then?" asked Brendon, curiously.

"Nothing," said Spencer, hastily. He risked a glance at Brendon and saw him give an exaggerated pout.

"Secrets?" Brendon asked, and Spencer laughed in spite of himself. Brendon could always get under his skin and make him melt. He ignored Ryan's snort of amusement behind him and reached out to squeeze Brendon's shoulder as he shook his head. Brendon's pout transformed into a smile and he stepped close into Spencer's personal space, leaning in for a hug. "I knew you couldn't keep secrets from me, Spencer Smith," he said happily. He gave Spencer a hearty squeeze before stepping back and flopping down onto Spencer's bed.

"Spencer shares every nuance of his soul with you, Brendon," said Ryan, his voice absolutely deadpan. Spencer glared at him. He could tell Ryan was laughing at him on the inside again. This was getting old. It had been over a year, Ryan should have ceased finding Spencer's crush ridiculous.

"Are you trying to be sarcastic?" enquired Brendon. "I was just about to say that Spencer should wear his black t-shirt with the silver drum kit on it, but if you don't want my opinion that's fine."

"I had forgotten about that t-shirt," said Spencer. Ryan cast him a scornful look and crossed to the dresser, momentarily diverted from his silent mockery of Spencer.

"Will you condescend to wear that black t-shirt, princess? Since _Brendon_ has given it his seal of approval?"

"Brendon says I always look pretty," Spencer retorted, glaring at Ryan.

"It's true," said Brendon. He smiled sunnily up at Spencer and Spencer found himself smiling back at him without meaning too. He really had to get over this crush before Ryan did something too outrageous and Brendon realised. Spencer was quite happy keeping it to himself. Well, he could admit to himself that he wasn't quite happy, not when Brendon had no concept of personal space at all, or when Spencer had to hold himself back from kissing him. But mostly.

The balled up t-shirt hit him in the face, and he realised, with a start, that he and Brendon had been staring at each other like a pair of idiots. Hastily pulling off the pink t-shirt and dropping it on the bed, Spencer tugged the black shirt over his head and put his hands on his hips, looking at Ryan with a challenging tilt to his head.

"Happy now?" he asked.

"Well, if Brendon likes it, how could I not be happy?" asked Ryan.

"I'm glad you value my opinion," said Brendon. He tugged on the leg of Spencer's jeans, encouraging him to sit down on the bed. "Are you guys excited?"

Spencer sat down a few inches from Brendon, making sure they didn't touch. "Ryan's already been to the bathroom four times this afternoon already," he said, smiling maliciously. Ryan opened his mouth to retort, but it changed into a malicious smile of his own as Brendon scooted closer to Spencer and tucked in the tag at the back of his t-shirt. Spencer glared at Ryan.

"I always need to go to the bathroom when I'm excited too," said Brendon. Spencer laughed as Ryan's smile faded into a look of thinly disguised horror. "It's true," insisted Brendon, sitting up straight and looking at Ryan very earnestly.

"I believe you," said Ryan. "I just wish I'd never had to know that."

"Sorry, was that something I shouldn't talk about?" asked Brendon. He looked at Spencer with an air of bewilderment, and Spencer melted again. He really had it bad, if he was starting to think that Brendon's confusion was adorable, if it made Spencer want to give him a hug and protect him. He sometimes forgot that Brendon hadn't had many friends before, and that he sometimes didn't know the rules. Spencer put his arm around Brendon's shoulders.

"Ryan's a douche. He says worse things than that all the time. Don't worry about him." Brendon huddled into Spencer's side.

"As touching as it is watching you instruct Brendon on the ways of the world," said Ryan, "it's time for us to go."

"Already?" asked Brendon. "It doesn't start for ages."

"We can't risk Ryan missing an instant of staring at Gerard Way," said Spencer. "His fangirl soul would shrivel up and die."

"Is Gerard his favourite?" asked Brendon. "What about you, Spencer?"

"Spencer likes them small and hyperactive," said Ryan. "He's going to look at Frank Iero with big cartoon hearts in his eyes."

"Huh," said Brendon, "I never would have imagined you liking the tiny, pretty ones, Spencer. In my mind, you like the strong, silent type."

Ryan started laughing, and Spencer stood up abruptly, dislodging Brendon from his side. "You know what? I think I need to go to the bathroom now, too." He stalked from the room and down the hallway, still able to hear Ryan's laughter ringing in his ears, and Brendon's oblivious comment. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, tilting his head back to rest against the smooth wood, and forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. He could get through this. He'd had plenty of practice.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Bob listened to Gerard, pacing back and forth at the front of the stage, without really hearing the words. His sticks were loose in one hand as he tipped up his water bottle with the other and took a drink. He listened to the crowd roar, and wondered idly how many of the kids out there dreamed of being rockstars. A high proportion, he would bet. He would also bet that most of them wanted to be Gerard, on fire and passionate in front of the crowd, lifting them up with his voice and letting them down again, but that not many of them wanted to be him. He was tucked away at the back of the stage, silent but for the sharp beats that punctuated the words the kids screamed so faithfully.

Ray looked over at him, jerking his chin up to signal his readiness. Bob looked from him to Frank and Mikey, seeing them look back, waiting, then to Gerard. As if feeling Bob's eyes on him, he turned his head and Bob lifted his sticks to count them in. His band. He played hard, driving the beat hard and fast, perfectly on time, letting the rest of the band work from the structure he created.

Bob let his arms hang by his side when he got to the end of the song. He ached through his back and neck, the clean feeling of exertion and playing hard. It would be a shame if none of the kids, still screaming up at the stage like a single being of many arms and mouths and huge, shining eyes, ever knew the feeling.

Later, Bob leaned up against the wall of the venue and looked out over the fans waiting against the barrier. He was hidden in the shadows, watching Frank and Gerard talk and laugh with delighted faces. They truly loved this shit. Shaking his head, Bob saw Frank bend down to listen to one tiny girl, nodding along to whatever she was saying. One of the huge security guards loomed behind them, as if Frank was in potential danger. Bob snorted. Maybe he was; fangirls might be tiny but they clung fiercely. Brian detached himself from talking with the guard that was shadowing Gerard and headed towards Bob. Allowing himself to imagine for a moment that Brian was looking for him, Bob stood still and watched him approach.

He was walking with that jittery air of watchfulness he always got when it was time to supervise Frank and Gerard with the fans, like he expected them to overturn the barricades any second. As Brian came closer to Bob's hiding place, he saw that Brian was wrestling something out of his pocket. It was a tiny bottle of pills, nondescript brown plastic, and Bob saw him shake out two and put the bottle back.

"Got a headache?" he asked, as Brian came within speaking distance. Brian jumped and fumbled his bottle of water. Bob knew he'd been invisible to Brian, but the look of shock and suspicion on Brian's face still ached. He wished Brian had been looking for him, like maybe they had planned to meet there in the shadows.

"Yeah. Fans," he said, hastily swallowing the pills before coming and leaning against the wall next to Bob. He was still oddly jittery and Bob wanted to touch him. Maybe run his fingers down the expanse of his back, see if he could get the tension out. He could remember palming Brian's skin, hands curling over his shoulder blades, down over the sharp arch of his hips, shoving his shirt and pants out of the way as they kissed, sloppy and drunk. He was sober, now, though, and he couldn't touch Brian. He tilted his head down and pulled out a pack of cigarettes instead, offering one to Brian. He flicked his lighter, cupping his hands around Brian's as he touched the flame to the tip. Looking down, he caught Brian looking back at him and flushed. Grateful for the dark, he straightened and lit his own cigarette, nervously tugging on his lip ring before he took the first drag.

"They're crazy, aren't they?" Bob asked and Brian huffed a laugh.

"The fans or Frank and Gerard?"

"All of them, I think," said Bob. "Gerard really believes it. He really wants to save those kids."

"Don't you?" asked Brian, with a short laugh. "Why join the band if you don't?"

"I want to play," said Bob softly. Brian seemed so prickly. He was different now, not like Bob remembered him from touring with The Used, from touring in Europe. He had edges that Bob didn't recognise, and even if he was drunk he never came to Bob. It was like he'd forgotten it. He never let Bob touch him beyond the everyday, and Bob couldn't help but mourn it. He wanted to play, though, and if Brian being off limits was part of that.... Swallowing hard, Bob tipped his head back against the wall and looked up at the sky.

"You sounded good tonight, Bryar," said Brian, oblivious to Bob's musings. "You're good for the band."

The words _I could be good for you_ hovered on his tongue, but Bob held them in. He wasn't going to say them. Instead, he smiled and took another drag on his cigarette. "I like to play," he said, looking at his feet, carefully not at Brian.

"That's good," said Brian, tossing his cigarette to the ground and pushing away from the wall. He seemed a lot calmer now. "Gonna go round up my boys," he said. "See you on the bus."

Bob echoed his farewell and watched him stride across the concrete to the barrier, where Gerard was talking earnestly to a couple of androgynous scene kids. He stayed in the shadows and let smoke stream out his nostrils in a long, steady exhale. He smiled. One of the kids was wearing a t-shirt with a drum kit across the front.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**June 2005, Las Vegas**

The grind of recording was like nothing Spencer had ever experienced, or even dreamed of. He played all day until his fingers blistered, slowly healed under layers of surgical tape, then hardened into new calluses. Brent spent all his time texting his girlfriend and eating like his life depended on it, while Ryan was anxious and morose, snapping at everyone and sulking for hours in the bathroom. Brendon grew pale and thin, rushing everywhere until he finally dropped where he was standing, sometimes barely making it to his bed. Spencer lost count of the number of times he'd found Brendon swaying with exhaustion and had to lead him to his room, helping him take his shoes and jeans off and make it under the covers. He would tuck his hand under his cheek and smile, murmuring a quiet 'thanks, Spence' as he drifted off. Ryan caught him one night, looking down at Brendon and smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

Then they were back in Vegas for prom night, and Brendon was nearly vibrating with nervous energy by Spencer's side as they got out of the limo and headed into the hall. Ryan and Brent went ahead with their dates, but Spencer and Brendon caught up to them by the door, and heads turned as they entered. Spencer stuck close to Brendon as the couples headed for the floor.

"Want a drink?" he asked, and Brendon smiled up at him. As always, Spencer smiled back.

"I'll come with you," he replied. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be," he said as they waited by the punch.

"You think?" asked Spencer, who was uncomfortable in his tux and under the scrutiny of so many people and their speculative gazes. He looked at Ryan, dancing like a spazz on the floor, and Brent, sitting with his date and kissing again.

"Yeah." Brendon looked down and shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Ryan told me that you were interested in someone. You could have, you know, invited her." Spencer's breath caught and his gaze narrowed to a glare on Ryan's flailing body. "Um, sorry, was I not supposed to mention it?" asked Brendon.

"Nah, it's okay," said Spencer. "It's no one I could have asked." Then someone Spencer vaguely remembered from one class or another came up and congratulated them both, then another followed. He watched Brendon talk with people who had never been interested in him before, not until the band had been signed. Brendon's happy smile stabbed through him like a knife, and he slipped out onto the balcony and stared up at the stars.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Brendon smiling and shifting from foot to foot. "You look lonely, Spencer James Smith, and that's just wrong. You should always smile."

Spencer did smile then, an automatic reaction to Brendon's. Brendon took at as an invitation and stepped closer, standing at the rail with Spencer and bumping their shoulders together. Spencer looked out over the grounds by the hall.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Brendon.

"It's not important," said Spencer.

"It's pretty important if it's making you sad and lonely."

"Ryan never should have said anything."

"Hey, Ryan was just helping. He was being your friend. I just want to be your friend too."

"I know you do," said Spencer, and he hoped that the note of resigned misery had stayed out of his voice. He knew that Brendon wanted to be a good friend, he just couldn't help himself from wanting more.

"So tell me about it," urged Brendon. "Who is it? Is it someone I know?"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Spencer.

"It must be someone I know," mused Brendon, "and she must be pretty fucking awesome if you like her."

"Brendon," said Spencer, turning to face him and leaning against the rail. Brendon looked up at him, eyes shining with happiness and mouth stretched into a smile. It was prom night, and Spencer wanted to be happy too. He reached out and touched Brendon's face, tilting it up a little and running his thumb over Brendon's cheekbone. He took a deep breath and leaned closer, keeping his eyes open and committing this to memory.

Brendon's lips were parted just a little, soft and dry, and Spencer licked his just before they touched. He pressed softly, tilting his head and moving his mouth gently against Brendon's. Desperately hoping that Brendon would kiss back, Spencer pressed a little harder, flickering his tongue out to smooth over Brendon's bottom lip. He felt nervousness and excitement shooting uneasily up and down his spine, waiting for Brendon to open his mouth and kiss back. But Brendon was frozen underneath him, and Spencer pulled back, letting his hand drop away from Brendon's face. He pressed it to his lips instead, wanting to capture the tingle in both of them.

"Now you know," he said, finally, moving his hand away. He cleared his throat nervously. "Who it is, I mean. It's you."

Brendon looked really frozen in the thin moonlight, but he seemed to come awake at these words. "That's impossible," he said. "You're a boy, Spencer. It's just. Not even." Shaking his head, as if to clear it, he backed away a little and touched his own fingers to his lips. "I'm not gay," he said, a little more strongly, anger clear in his voice. "I'm not, and just. Don't even, don't even come near me." Then he turned and practically ran back inside, leaving Spencer behind with all his nervousness turned to dread and pain deep in his belly. He turned back to the railing, gripping both hands around the cold iron. He bowed his head, waiting for the feeling of Brendon's mouth against his to fade.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**August 2005, Florida**

Brendon stretched his legs out over the back bench seat and tilted his head back. The window vibrated unpleasantly under his head and his feet were losing circulation. It was impossible to get comfortable, and they still had weeks, maybe months, to go in this van, crammed up with merchandise and equipment and the sour smell of dirty clothes and unwashed teenager. He twisted on the seat, tucking his legs underneath himself, and fumbled with his iPod, just for something to do with his fingers. He carefully didn't look towards the front of the van, past an oblivious Brent, to where Ryan and Spencer sat on the front seats, where one of them would be driving and other other staring silently out the window. The silence was new, just since the disastrous night at the prom. He'd thought it had been bad back in Maryland for the last few weeks of recording, but it was worse here. It seemed to settle heavily in the corners of the van.

The van pulled off the road abruptly, and Brendon craned his neck. A rest stop, not the venue. There were still at least three hours to go before he could escape to mingle with the other bands and get away from the silences of his. Brent looked up too and heaved himself out as soon as the van pulled to a stop, phone already open so he could ring his girlfriend. Spencer and Ryan peeled out, heading for the toilets side by side, shoulders nearly touching. Brendon followed, slowly, scowling down at the asphalt. He hated the silence, so much that he could nearly taste it sitting on his chest and squeezing into him. He just wished Spencer had never said anything, had kept his mouth shut, because Brendon wasn't gay, just wasn't. Brendon ignored the way that the memory of Spencer's reddened eyes the morning after, and sometimes since, could make his chest hurt worse than the silence in the van ever could.

Ryan was standing outside the single toilet when Brendon approached. Brendon's steps slowed, dragging as he came closer. Almost as bad as seeing Spencer after he'd been crying was the distance on Ryan's face, the politely civil way he had of looking through Brendon. He didn't want to get too close and give Ryan another chance to look through him, or past him or round him. It hurt more than he could ever have guessed. Ryan glanced up at the scuffle of feet on the asphalt, but Spencer emerged from the toilet at that point. He looked quickly away from Brendon, mumbling something to Ryan and walking quickly back towards the van. He passed within a couple of feet of Brendon, but it felt like miles. It felt a tiny bit like he remembered in the corridors of high school, but Spencer was cast in the role of the geeky kid ducking for cover from the jock.

Waiting outside the stall for Ryan to emerge, Brendon tapped his foot impatiently. This wasn't his fault. It wasn't. Spencer shouldn't have said anything, but Brendon just wanted it to be over. Wanted the silence to break and shatter around them. Didn't want this to end with stony incomprehension like his family had, with him leaving and being alone. He wanted the noise and energy of the music, the things he loved about this band, about _Spencer_, before the other had to go and ruin it.

"Waiting for someone?" asked Ryan, standing in front of the door as it swung shut behind him. "Don't you think that's a little _gay_, Brendon?"

Brendon's gaze snapped to his face, trying to read something into it, but Ryan's face had learned a mask of bland impenetrability long before Brendon came along. Ryan snorted and stalked past him, leaving Brendon to go into the grimy toilets and shut the door behind him. The tiny room reeked worse than the van, so Brendon hurried to the urinal and tried to think of nothing. Afterwards, while washing his hands, he looked at his reflection in the cracked and spotted mirror above the sink, reading the tiredness there.

Coming out, he stopped short at the sight of Spencer, standing uncomfortably a few feet away, arms crossed and head down . He looked up when Brendon came out. The shadows under his eyes were heavy and bruised; and he was obviously beyond tired and into bone-weary exhaustion.

"Brendon," he said, glancing up and then down, away to where Brendon guessed Ryan must be having a cigarette. "Look. This has got to stop. It has to." He dragged in a shaky breath, unwrapping his arms from around his chest. Brendon could see that his hands shake a little before he shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie. "This band. It's everything to Ryan. And me. So I'm sorry, okay? I'm so fucking sorry I said anything, and please." He coughed a little, keeping his head down. Brendon felt his stomach crawl with something he didn't want to name. He had never seen Spencer like this, never seen him less than perfectly in control and competent, even in the mornings when his eyes were red and his voice scratchy.

"What," he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. His voice was uneven. "What did you have in mind?"

"We forget all this," said Spencer, instantly. "Nothing happened. We get back in that van and you sit in the front seat with me as I drive, and you explain to me again why we should request Disney songs on the open request line of the radio station, and I threaten to smash your cell phone. Then we play, and we keep on like that, until it's all forgotten and things are back to how they used to be." Spencer glanced away again, then back, lifting his eyes to Brendon's briefly. "Please," he said again. "Please Brendon, please, I'll do anything."

Brendon turned away from the desperation he could see clearly written on Spencer's face, and in every line of his body. "Okay," he said, throat suddenly tight. "Okay, we forget about it. Nothing ever happened. Nothing."

"Thank you," said Spencer, relief clear in his voice. Brendon felt sick. This was what he wanted, for things to go back to how they used to be, but he never, ever wanted to hear Spencer like this again, see him like this again. He felt sick that he had driven Spencer to this edge of desperation. His stomach turned over, but he shoved down his nausea and stepped closer.

"Okay. Um. Should we?" He waved towards the van and Spencer turned towards it instantly. They walked side by side, a clear three feet of space between them all the way over the concrete forecourt and into the confines of the van. Brendon boosted himself into the passenger seat, settling down into the worn vinyl and propping his feet on the dashboard. He leaned over to fiddle with the radio controls, looking up at Spencer, sending him his best attempt at his old grin. Spencer's answering smile was shaky, but it was there, and Brendon felt like he was going to cry with relief now. Things weren't perfect, but they were going to be. They were going to go back to how they were before, and that's just what he wanted. As Spencer turned the key and Ryan climbed silently into the back, sliding in behind Brent, Brendon turned up the volume and let the music from the cheap van speakers wash through them, a pale imitation of the original sound, but still music.

 

**September 2005, Arizona**

Spencer hadn't expected to spend his birthday on the road, baking in the sun or sweating in the dimly lit back of clubs and halls, or twisted up and uncomfortable in the back of a van. He sat on the cracked concrete of the parking lot outside the club and leaned back against the van. He stunk of sunscreen and sweat and faded deodorant and clothes that were possibly sentient by now. Ryan sat next to him, hunched over a notebook, while Brendon was lying stretched out on his back, propped up on his elbows, face tipped up to the sky. Spencer dragged his eyes away and focused instead on the crack running through the concrete, swerving crazily back and forth in front of him.

Brent appeared round the back of the van and folded himself down onto the concrete next to Ryan, slipping his phone into his pocket as he did. He had a cold bottle of water in his hand, and he swung it back and forth a few times. Ryan looked up, focusing on the condensation beading on the plastic. Icy water was like gold, today, and Spencer could feel his mouth watering. Even Brendon had straightened up a little.

"Happy birthday, Spencer," said Brent, breaking into a grin and tossing the bottle over. Spencer laughed softly and caught it, fumbling the slippery plastic a little.

"You're gonna share, right?" asked Ryan, tucking his notebook away and looking over at him. Spencer laughed.

"Fuck, no," he said. "It's my birthday. I'm _eighteen_ today. What more could I want than this chilled beverage that will hydrate me and quench my thirsts?"

"Man," said Brendon, laughing a little, "I'll quench thirsts you didn't even know you had, if only you'll share the water with me." Spencer closed his eyes tightly for a second, just long enough to get himself together and not give away how much his heart ached whenever Brendon did shit like that. He had begged Brendon to forget everything, and go back to how things had been, but he hadn't expected it to be so hard. He still cried, sometimes, in the bathroom on their rare hotel nights, splashing his face with water afterwards and sliding back into his bed with Ryan, trying not to listen to the sound of Brendon's steady breathing across the room with Brent.

"Fuck, no," he said again, instead, hoping that no one heard the note of hurt hiding under his retort. "Your mom said that to me last night and it wasn't true then, either." Ryan snorted with laughter and Brent chuckled. Brendon scrunched his face up for a second before he laughed too, and Spencer's heart twisted again. He dropped his head, pretending to wrestle with the slippery lid of the bottle, hiding his face behind his hair and the shadow cast by the van.

Every day it got better, he told himself. Every day it got easier, and the pretense faded a little more into some semblance of how they used to be, and how easy things had been between them. Brendon no longer flinched away from him in the van, and Spencer could smile at him without a twist to his lips. But it was hard, and Spencer was still not sleeping, and his jeans hung off him in ways they never had before. Ryan talked to Brendon now, at least, and the warmth was back in his voice. Sometimes, Ryan's hand rested on the small of Spencer's back, or his head tipped down to his shoulder and Spencer knew that Ryan wasn't completely fooled.

"Happy birthday, Spencer," said Ryan. "I got you something too."

"Yeah?" asked Spencer. "Where is it, then?"

"It's waiting for you in Las Vegas," said Ryan, rolling his eyes. "I left it with your Mom. She's gonna bring it to the show for you."

"It's not a vest, is it? You know I look terrible in vests." Ryan flung an arm around Spencer's shoulder and pulled him close.

"It's not a vest," he said. "Although, you could do with some new clothes."

"There is no fucking way I am going shopping with you, Ryan Ross," Spencer announced. "I already gave you a present for your birthday, and it wasn't a free pass to torturing me for five hours at the mall."

"Don't look at me, man," said Brent. "I suck at shopping."

"Um, I'll go," said Brendon. Spencer knew he wasn't mistaking the hesitant tone this time, and he turned his head to see Brendon sitting up completely now, arms wrapped around his knees and chin resting on them. "I mean, you went with me, when I first... yeah. I'll go," he finished.

"Um," said Spencer, fumbling again with the lid of the water. "Yeah. I mean, sure, that would be great." He pasted on his best smile, the one that hardly wavered at all, and looked back down at the cracked and broken concrete as he finally got the lid off the water and it splashed over his shaking fingers.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

 

**September 2005, Utah**

Brian stood over the couch in the front lounge of the My Chemical Romance bus, arms folded and scowling down at Frank and Gerard. He knew Bob was standing in the doorway to the bunks, hunched over a little and looking everywhere but at Brian, but he ignored that. He was sick of this cycle, sick of the stony, stubborn faces that Frank and Gerard turned towards him, sick of Bob's stoic silence, sick of the way Ray and Mikey evaporated at the first sign of trouble. He resisted the urge to scratch at his arms or pat down his pockets, just clutching his fingers tighter into his biceps and concentrating on keeping his voice even. He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, even in the air conditioning, but he ignored that too.

"No, guys! I know you want to be all political, and I respect that, but no," he said. They had this argument at least once a month, and Brian was getting sick of it, too. Every time it was the same, like there were only three or four conversations that he could have with the band and they just got recycled. At least now Gerard was clean, but that just made him more stubborn, less likely to pass out in the middle of the same worn arguments. Frank opened his mouth to speak but Brian just glared harder. "I said fucking _no_, Frank. Don't fucking ask me again." Turning on his heel, Brian stomped down the steps of the bus and out into the blazing sunlight. September was proving hot and humid, and Brian could feel the sweat starting to bead on his forehead.

He leaned back against the bus, uncaring of how the metal scorched through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He felt edgy and restless, stretched thin. His fingers shook slightly as he shoved them deep in the pockets of his jeans and closed one hand around the pill bottle there. The door to the bus hissed open and he pulled his hand back, fishing his cigarettes out of his other pocket instead and lighting one with a swift click of his lighter. He sucked in a lungful of smoke and exhaled noisily, not even looking at Bob as he came to lean next to him. Brian kept still with an effort, reining in his irritation. He wanted to punch something, scream something, or pop a pill to make all that fade away. He wasn't sure he could stop himself from doing one of the former if he didn't get the latter soon.

"Fuck them," he burst out, slanting a sideways look at Bob. His irritation grew to include Bob, as if he had been part of that argument back on the bus. Bob just fucking stood there, always fucking around, and, yeah, Brian could admit that it was mostly reassuring to have Bob right beside him, but would it kill him to support Brian sometimes? "Fuck them, he said again, kicking at the broken concrete of the car park.

"They'll never change," said Bob, lighting his own cigarette.

"Great insight," sneered Brian. "And now, how about a stunning revelation about how the fuck I'm supposed to manage a band that has no fucking grasp of what is and is not acceptable public behaviour?"

Bob didn't answer, looking off to the side and slumping against the side of the bus. Brian took another long drag of his cigarette and twitched a little. He didn't even have a bottle of water, he couldn't even try to palm a pill off as if it was for a headache or whatever, not dry, and not with Bob just standing right fucking there. He knew he was being an asshole, he really did. He knew that once he would have just let this roll off him, would have laughed and had a drink and forgotten about it till next time, but things were different now. Everything wound him up tighter and tighter these days. He could remember a time when touring used to be fun, when he hadn't minded being on the road all the time.

"You remember the first time we met?" he asked Bob suddenly, turning his head to look at him.

"Fuck, yeah," said Bob. "I felt like I'd just been dropped into a war zone. The fucking Used."

Brian laughed, ignoring the bitter edge to his nostalgia. Bob just sounded fond, and maybe a bit wistful. "Those fuckers. Man, I thought I'd seen everything," Brian continued. "Your eyes, dude, that first day on the tour. They were like saucers."

"They were fucking not," said Bob, a strange note to his voice. Brian didn't want to think about that, he just wanted to talk. Trying to wear out his restlessness anyway he could, even in the dim memory of a much simpler time. He got into the van with the other techs and managers, drove, got out and worked. He drank, partied, and spent his days stinking of sweat and booze. Bob had been there, then, and he remembered what it was like. He must remember. Brian looked at Bob, watching him worrying at the ring in his lip. He could remember tugging on that ring with his teeth a few times, when they were too fucked up to care, when they had been pliant, willing bodies for each other. Bob's hands had held him down on his lap and they had kissed and touched each other and fucked, once or twice or a hundred times in the back of venues and vans. He wasn't sure when they had started, or why, or when they had stopped, but he felt a distance between them now, as solid and impermeable as the plastic of the little bottle in his pocket. Still, they had been brilliant and invulnerable then, even in the dirt and the wearing grind of playing and partying. Brian couldn't remember exactly when it stopped being so sharp and clear, when their silhouettes started to blur and waver. He missed the uncomplicated rhythm of his days. He missed Bob's skin under his hands and mouth.

Brian shifted from foot to foot. This wasn't working. He still itched and his hands were shaking obviously now. Bob's hand landed on his arm, anchoring him momentarily. Brian looked up at him, something about the intensity of his gaze keeping him steady for a brief second. He wanted Bob to wrap his other hand around Brian and hold him still, and his stomach fluttered, barely recognisable as a separate feeling through the ache and burn of longing for his pills.

"What's wrong?" asked Bob, looking down at him. Brian met his gaze briefly, reading concern there, and something else that he wasn't sure about. He didn't want to know. It wasn't what he remembered, though, not how Bob had used to look at him and touch him, drunken hands roaming over his skin and holding him down. It was darker, more complicated. Brian just wanted to get out of the fucking sun.

"Nothing," he said, twisting away. "I'm looking forward to a break. You're going home, aren't you?" Four fucking days, free of the road and the stress and the arguments. Time when the pills might be for pleasure, like he remembered them.

"Yeah, gonna catch up with Patrick. They're playing with Pete's baby band, and I'm gonna go seem them." Bob was still looking at Brian with that strange mixture of concern and whatever else it was, something edgier.

"Great," said Brian, not really listening. He pushed his hand through his hair distractedly and kicked against the ground. "Look, I gotta go," he blurted. Bob blinked at him in some surprise. No one had anything to do for a few hours, and Brian knew Bob knew that, but Brian couldn't take it any longer. The soothing chemical calm of his pills was just some privacy and a mouthful of water away, and he wanted to get to that place.

"Okay," Bob said. He leaned against the bus and watched as Brian walked away. As he turned round the end of the bus, Brian looked back to see Bob still frowning after him, concern clearly etched on his face, and maybe something else, like hurt or pain. He looked like something from a dream, a swiftly retreating sense of contentment and stability in a waking world that was lived from one jolt of chemicals to the next. Brian shook his head and headed to find somewhere with water bottles. These things were a bitch to swallow dry.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**September 2005, Chicago**

Some things never changed, and having Pete Wentz hanging off your neck was one of them. Bob folded his arms and stood stoically under his assault, trying not to wince at the loud, braying laugh right in his ear. Patrick slapped Pete's arm and he disentangled himself enough that his feet were back on the floor and Bob was no longer being climbed like a tree. Bob didn't mind much; he got plenty of practice with Frank. Tiny people who wanted to clamber all over him were kind of par for the course at this stage. Not that Brian ever did, but Bob wasn't going to think about that. He was here on a break, and he just wanted to enjoy himself and have a good time and forget about Brian and his band and all their problems.

"Dude!" Pete said, pitched loud over the bustle backstage. "It's awesome that you made it. You guys have been doing well, I hear." Bob thought about replying, but Pete's attention was distracted and Bob just shared a look with Patrick and shook his head. Then Pete tugged on his arm and said, "There they are! Panic! at the Disco, in the tiny, baby flesh. Aren't they adorable?"

Bob looked where Pete was pointing, to a huddle of four boys in crisp shirts, carefully straightened hair, and eyeliner. Pete was right, they were tiny and painfully young. One was bouncing slightly on the spot, another standing next to him and pushing his hair out of his eyes as he listened to whatever the first was saying. The third was in a vest, of all things, and his hand rested low on the back of the fourth. This one, the last one, looked at his band mate and smiled, huge and blinding. Bob sucked in a breath. He watched as the bouncy one claimed the boy's attention and the smile faded so quickly that Bob wasn't sure that he hadn't just hallucinated it.

"I have to introduce you. You'll love them. Ryan is just amazing. Seriously." Pete tugged his arm as he spoke and Bob allowed himself to be led closer. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see Patrick looking amused, but forgot about him quickly as they got closer and he got a better look at the boy who had captured his attention. He was listening to the bouncy boy, and his face was friendly enough, but there was a reserve that hadn't been there when he had smiled before. He held himself more tensely, like he was scared of making a wrong move.

Bob had come on the break looking for a respite from his band, and from Brian. Bob wasn't sure when he'd fallen in love with Brian, but it was long enough ago that Brian's lack of interest, increasing unpredictability and brusqueness were something he was used to, even though it still hurt. The sight of this boy, with his air of reserve that contrasted with his unguarded smile, made Bob want something different. Fuck. If the kid was in a band signed by Pete Wentz, he couldn't be all that innocent, anyway, no matter how young he looked. Pete stopped next to the quartet and Bob stopped too, focusing on his introductions.

"Bob, meet Panic! at the Disco. This is Brendon Urie and Brent Wilson," he said, indicating the bouncy one and the quiet one he had been talking to at the beginning, "and this is Spencer Smith, who is a rocking drummer." Bob tuned out the rest of his introduction, vaguely aware that Pete had flung his arms around the last one - the skinniest one - and was possibly groping him a little too enthusiastically. All his attention was on the one named Spencer, who was smiling at him. This was nothing like the unguarded blaze of happiness and amusement he'd shown his band mate. This smile was cool and friendly and filled with caution.

Bob smiled and held his hand out. "Bob Bryar, in case you missed the introduction," he said. "We can totally start an alliterative drummers society," he continued, gratified when Spencer smiled more warmly and shook his hand.

"Would we exclude Ryan?" he asked, waving to the boy who was still wrapped up in Pete's clutches.

"Is he an alliterative drummer?" asked Bob.

"No, an alliterative guitarist," Spencer answered. "It's not really the same, is it?"

"Not even close," said Bob. "We will remain an exclusive club of two."

"Sounds good," agreed Spencer, peeking up at him from under his eyelashes. He looked a little shy, but receptive, and Bob wanted him, with a sudden fervour that surprised him. He wanted this boy; wanted to ease his lips open and kiss until their mouths were bruised and red. He wanted to get his hands on that soft, unmarked skin and run his fingers all over it and muffle his voice in its smoothness. He knew Spencer must be young, but he carried himself with an air of confidence. This kid knew what he was doing, and Bob was going to have him.

"Cool," agreed Bob. "Want to show me your kit?" Spencer nodded and led him off without a word, merely exchanging a glance and a raised eyebrow with Ryan, who was standing still with Pete's hand up his vest, pretending to listen to him mumbling into his neck. Bob glanced away to catch the bouncy one - Brendon, that was right - glaring at both him and Spencer, his conversation with the quiet one forgotten. Before he had time to think much of it, Spencer's fingers encircled his wrist and tugged. Bob looked at him and followed, eager to get him alone and try to coax another smile out of him.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Spencer Smith was hot behind a drum kit, with his mouth open and his eyes closed as he concentrated fiercely. Sweat gleamed on his skin and his hair flew around his face, and Bob felt the lust that had gripped him on sight get even stronger. This was what he wanted right now. Not some broken-down and jagged thing that he could never really get, no matter how long he waited. He impatiently pushed aside thoughts of Brian. He'd never been much of one for one night stands, but he was willing to make an exception here, if that was all he could get from Spencer.

"They're awesome, aren't they?" asked Pete, wrapping one arm around Bob and squeezing as best he could. For such a short fucker, he had a surprisingly strong squeeze.

"Yeah, they're really something," Bob replied, not bothering to look away from Spencer. The song finished and Spencer leaned forward from his throne to listen to Ryan say something.

"Ryan's just amazing," enthused Pete, gazing at the boy with admiration. "He writes their lyrics, and he's so pretty. The girls are going to cream over him." Bob didn't bother shaking his head or sighing, like he usually would, or commenting that it wasn't just the fangirls that needed to change their panties. Pete was just Pete, and there was no changing him. Spencer looked over to where Bob and Pete were standing, and Bob thought maybe he could see a shade of red, deeper than the flush of playing, creep over his skin as he looked.

Spencer counted them in to their final song, hands strong and confident on the sticks as he held the band together. He was accurate, focused and deliberate, banging away with his hair hanging in his face and the muscles in his shoulders straining. As Spencer threw his head back and crashed through the final notes, Bob shifted from one foot to the other. Spencer was the most intriguing mix of hot invitation and cool reserve. His smiles were elusive, but each one made Bob want another. Best of all, Spencer had listened to Bob, looking up at him under the sweep of his bangs, laughing at his jokes, and asking him questions that showed he was paying attention. Bob couldn't remember the last time Brian had really noticed him.

Brendon finished their final goodnight and turned back to the band, clapping Ryan on the back and heading straight for Spencer, catching him just as they came off stage near where Bob and Pete were standing. Bob watched as Spencer tensed right up as Brendon touched him, the smile he was sharing with Ryan freezing on his face. Without thinking, Bob stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Spencer's wrist, tugging him closer, away from Brendon. Spencer pulled back for a second, resisting, but relaxed when he glanced up and saw Bob there. Stepping right past Brendon, sliding around him with what looked like the ease of long practice, Spencer came to a halt next to Bob. He smiled, skirting close to the warm look he'd worn for Ryan.

"You watched the whole set?" he asked.

"Yeah, even the bits where you had to start again," Bob replied. He dropped his hand from Spencer's wrist and wrapped it round his shoulders instead, tugging him close and into a loose embrace when he bit his lip and looked mortified. He bent down and brushed his lips against the shell of Spencer's ear as he continued, "The bits where you fucking rocked were my favourite. There were a lot of them."

Spencer looked up at him, still nibbling at his lip as he looked uncertain. Their faces were close together, and Bob swallowed hard as the anxious look vanished and Spencer seemed to come to some internal decision. His body shifted, hips canting towards Bob as he turned slightly into Bob's body. "Yeah?" he asked, smiling up at Bob. "I rocked, did I?" His hand came up and rested on Bob's hip and that was it. Bob was done playing.

"Fuck, yeah," he said, moving so that the arm around Spencer's shoulder slid down until his hand was resting in the small of Spencer's back. His skin felt hot and still sticky with sweat through the thin material of his shirt. "Want to take this meeting of alliterative drummers back to my hotel room, where I have a shower?"

"Well," said Spencer, appearing to consider his offer, "if you have a _shower_, then I suppose that's okay."

Bob huffed a laugh, pulling away but keeping his hand on Spencer's back. "Do you need to grab your things?"

"Yeah, I should grab my bag. It's in the closet that's masquerading as our dressing room. Wait here for me?"

"Sure," said Bob. He supposed he should apologise to Patrick for bailing before Fall Out Boy even played, but he wasn't sure he could even bring himself to care. He watched Spencer disappear down the corridor to the dressing rooms and turned to try to find Pete or Patrick. Pete was there, wrapped up in Ryan again, playing with the buttons on his vest. Next to them stood Brendon and Brent. Brent seemed to be listening intently to whatever Pete was saying, but both Ryan and Brendon had their gazes fixed on Bob. Ryan mainly looked speculative, like he was weighing Bob up for hidden character flaws, but Brendon was glaring at him again. As Bob watched, raising an eyebrow, Pete captured Ryan's attention, but Brendon continued to look at him, possibly trying to kill him with his mind, judging by the look on his face. Bob wasn't sure what was going on with the kid, fuck, with either of them, and he didn't really care.

"I'm ready," said Spencer, clutching the strap of his bag with the fingers of one hand and carefully avoiding Brendon's glare. Ryan glanced up then, and he and Spencer shared a look and an eyebrow raise that seemed to satisfy them both. Bob just smiled down at Spencer and led the way out of the venue. He was more than ready.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Spencer pushed down a lingering niggle of uncertainty as he followed Bob through the door of his hotel room and took off his shoes and socks, leaving them next to Bob's by the door. He knew what he was doing. This was exactly what he needed. Bob was hot, older and more experienced, and obviously into Spencer. He was perfect, from the calluses on his thick, capable fingers to the way his mouth curved in a smile that seemed to invite Spencer to join in on a private joke. Even better, Spencer wouldn't have to see him every day, crammed into the seats of a van that got smaller with every passing mile. He wouldn't have to paste on a smile tonight, or deflect Ryan from his worrying.

Bob turned to him as the door shut behind them. He reached out and tugged Spencer's hands from the strap of his messenger bag, placing it on the carpet and immediately returning his fingers to grasp Spencer's. Rubbing his thumbs over the backs of Spencer's hands, he tugged him closer, until they were nearly touching and Spencer had to tip his face back to look up at Bob.

"Hi," said Bob. "You wanna have that shower now?" Spencer realised that he was sweaty and probably gross from playing, and felt a blush spreading over his cheeks. Of course Bob wouldn't want to do anything until he was clean.

"Um, yeah," he said. "That would be awesome." Instead of letting him go, Bob pressed closer, letting go of Spencer's hands to slip them behind his back and under his shirt and splay them over his skin. He dropped his head and nuzzled into Spencer's neck, just under his ear. Spencer's cock was already half hard, and it hardened further under the brush of Bob's lips over sensitive skin.

"I hope you'll let me in with you," he said. "I've been thinking about you all night, and I don't think I can wait much longer." Spencer shivered. He'd never been wanted like this and he wasn't sure how to respond. It made him nervous. He didn't want to show that, though, didn't want to do anything that might cause Bob to stop.

"Of course," said Spencer. He hooked his fingers into Bob's belt loops and tugged him a little closer. "But you have to let go of me so I can get there." He pressed a kiss to Bob's throat, feeling the skin jump as he swallowed hard. "We have to both get naked."

Bob's hands moved again, sliding up over skin and rucking up his shirt. "Fuck," he mumbled, scraping his teeth over the lobe of Spencer's ear. "C'mon, now, before we can't." Spencer pulled back, casting a smile up at Bob that he hoped was sultry and inviting, and not as nervous as it felt. He walked towards the open bathroom door, unbuttoning his shirt as he went and shrugging it off as he stepped inside. Bob caught him right in the doorway, hands curling round Spencer's hips. He pressed a kiss to Spencer's shoulder, snug against Spencer's back. Swallowing hard against the feeling of Bob's bare chest against his skin, Spencer tipped his head back and smiled up at Bob.

"Did you want something?" he asked, trying not to let his voice shake at all.

"Fuck yeah," said Bob. His fingers moved over Spencer's pants, unbuttoning them and easing the fly down. He slid his hand in and rubbed the palm over Spencer's cock, hard and aching in his plain cotton boxers. Spencer bit back a gasp, hips jerking forward without his permission. He hoped he didn't seem too eager, desperate or inexperienced, even though he felt all three. Bob bit down lightly into his neck and eased his pants and boxers off his hips and down his thighs so they pooled at his feet.

"I want to hear you," Bob murmured into his shoulder. Spencer drew in a shaky breath as Bob pressed against his back, his erection obvious through his jeans.

"I want," said Spencer, before he stopped, not even sure of what he was going to say. He wanted everything. He wanted to tell Bob that he was the first to touch him like this, wanted to burn the memory into his mind, but more than that he didn't want Bob to stop. Bob's hand slid down over Spencer's balls, gentle little touches that inflamed him further, and Spencer moaned softly.

"Want do you want?" said Bob.

"Anything," said Spencer. "Everything. More."

"I can give you more," Bob replied. He jacked Spencer slowly, the fingers of his other hand playing with his nipples. "I can give you everything." Spencer groaned and threw his arm up, hooking it around Bob's neck and drawing him closer, the other reaching back and digging into his thigh. Spencer was strung out with nerves and arousal, but Bob's solid presence at his back helped him let go. It didn't really matter if he came too soon, or if his hands shook, or if he wasn't any good. Bob pressed kisses along Spencer's neck. "I wanted you as soon as I saw you tonight," Bob continued. Spencer laughed softly, the sound slightly gasping and ragged with his panting breath. It really didn't matter.

He twisted in Bob's embrace, dislodging his arms and getting his own hands down to the waistband of Bob's jeans. He got the button open and the fly down, looking up to see Bob's face as he slid his hand under the elastic of Bob's boxers and over his cock. He'd never touched another guy's cock before, but the weight was unexpectedly familiar in his hand. Watching as Bob's eyes closed and his mouth opened on a gasp of pleasure, Spencer experienced a rush of power along with his nerves. Bob was hard for him, Bob wanted him, and Spencer could do whatever he wanted tonight, inside this anonymous hotel room. He kissed Bob then, as he tried to push his jeans down and off at the same time. Bob opened for his kiss, his hands digging into the smooth flesh of Spencer's ass.

"Fuck," gasped Bob. "Shower, now. Wanna touch you everywhere." Spencer pulled back, even though it was hard. He needed a moment to breathe, to get himself back under control. Bob rubbed his thumb over Spencer's cheekbone and Spencer smiled at him happily. "Fuck the shower," said Bob, crowding Spencer further into the room and against the vanity. "I can't wait. Jesus, the way you smile." He fumbled on the vanity for the tiny bottle of generic hand cream, squeezing some into his palm and reaching between them to wrap his hand around Spencer's cock. Spencer moaned and jerked against him.

"Oh, God," hissed Spencer. Digging his fingers into Bob's shoulders, he arched into the slippery grip.

"Do you like it?" asked Bob. Spencer huffed another shaky laugh into Bob's neck.

"Fuck, yes, are you insane?" he asked, just barely able to get the sentence out. He was strung out, sure he looked sweaty and wild, but all that mattered was that Bob kept touching him. Bob's grip tightened, and his other hand grabbed Spencer's thigh and hoisted him slightly, until he was on the counter with his legs spread wide. Spencer looked up at Bob, who was looking down at him with his eyes blown wide and dark, his lip caught between his teeth. This was so much bigger and better than Spencer had expected. "Kiss me," he said, feeling surprisingly demanding and powerful.

Bob's tongue was rough against his, his teeth sharp as he tugged at Spencer's lower lip. Spencer moaned into the kiss, hooking one of his legs around Bob's waist and pulling him closer. He was near to the edge already, and the steady friction of Bob's hand was pushing him closer. Spencer pulled back from the kiss and dragged in deep breaths, each with a hitching whine at the end. He felt the arousal pool in his belly and would have felt ashamed of how quickly he was going to come, except for the way that Bob was panting harshly into his neck, obviously not that far behind him. Spencer came hard, nails raking over Bob's arms and heel digging into his back, moaning helplessly as he spilled into Bob's hand and over their stomachs.

Bob paused, hand softening on Spencer's cock, and Spencer bit him gently on the throat. "Want to suck you off," he whispered, feeling shaky but brave. Bob groaned and stepped back, helping Spencer down off the vanity and turning them round. Spencer sank to his knees, steadying himself on Bob's thigh. He leaned in and dragged his tongue up over Bob's cock, tasting his own come there, before opening his mouth and sucking on the head. Softly at first, and then harder as Bob moaned, Spencer sucked and licked him, trying to figure out what to do. It was all so much more in real life than it was in his imagination, but Spencer opened his mouth and took in as much of Bob as he could. Bob thrust up slightly, and Spencer choked, pulling back to cough.

"Sorry," he gasped out. "I've never," he said, forgetting that Bob wasn't supposed to know. He opened his mouth over Bob's cock again, bringing his free hand up to wrap around the base and pump strongly while Bob's fingers tightened in his hair, trying to pull him off or warn him. But Spencer didn't listen to the words, just the pleading note to his voice and how Bob said his name. Then Bob was coming, and Spencer choked again, pulling back and wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He felt both shaky and accomplished. Nothing could have prepared him for the reality of what sex was actually like.

Bob had hardly finished coming before he was tugging Spencer up, wrapping him up in his arms and pulling him close. Spencer felt his fingers shake as they skated down his back.

"Should've told me," Bob whispered. "Fuck, your first time?" Spencer froze, relaxing only slowly as Bob's hands roved over him, as if trying to assure himself that he hadn't broken him at all.

"Not important," said Spencer, clinging to his sense of satisfaction. He didn't want to ruin this night with regrets. "I wanted you."

"I want you too," said Bob. "But if I'd known...." His voice trailed off, and Spencer could fill in the gaps well enough. He tensed up again, imagining Bob's next words,_ I never would have done this_. "Shit, you deserve more than a cheap fuck in a hotel with me."

Spencer circled his arms around Bob's shoulders, worried that he'd ruined everything. There was so much he still wanted to try tonight, and he wasn't going to let anything get in the way. He looked up into Bob's face determinedly, reading some regret there, and he hadn't wanted to cause that. "Bob, no," he said. "Fuck, I knew what I was getting into. And it doesn't have to be cheap."

Bob tilted Spencer's chin up and kissed him hard. "I wish I could do it over," he said.

"You can get me roses next time," said Spencer. He rubbed his thumb over the side of Bob's throat, face intent as he watched Bob's distressed expression fade. "I still want to do everything."

"Okay," said Bob. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the centre of Spencer's palm, the metal of his lip ring cool on Spencer's skin. He looked determined again, his eyes still hot and intent. Spencer smiled up at him, pressed close against his chest and uncaring of the mess. "How about that shower, first?"

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**October 2005, Florida**

Bob looked down at his phone, standing in the arrivals hall of the airport and waiting for Brian to appear. He was always late, now, never where he was supposed to be, and certainly not where Bob wanted him to be. Bob's thumb hovered over the send button, looking down at the screen and wondering whether he was making the right decision. The message was waiting there, ready to be sent, _Had a good time last night. Again, sometime?_

Three hours on a plane hadn't erased the feeling of Spencer's fingers in his shoulders or his teeth in his neck. Spencer had tumbled out of his hotel bed at 5am, dragging on his clothes and tugging Bob into a kiss before staggering downstairs and into the van for the drive to the next destination. Bob had hooked a sleepy hand behind his neck and deepened the kiss briefly, flopping back on the bed as the door snicked shut and burying his face in his pillow. He'd woken again when his alarm went off, and stumbled out to catch a cab to the airport. Despite his tiredness, he felt alive in a way he hadn't for a long time. A reminiscent grin crossed his face as he remembered Spencer tucked close against his chest and snoring softly. Bob was glad he'd had the forethought to get Spencer's number before he'd left that morning, even though he was hesitating now over whether to send the text he'd agonised over typing.

Looking round the arrivals hall one more time, and failing to catch sight of Brian at all, Bob looked back at his phone and pressed the key to send it before he could overthink it any further. His phone vibrated in his hand less than a minute later.

_You don't have to still feel bad about it._

Bob sighed and typed again. Yeah, he'd gone into the night just looking to get laid, just wanting someone to hold and touch, to want and to be wanted by, but he'd come out of it seeing Spencer Smith as more than a pair of hips cocked in invitation and an addictive smile. There was something about him that got right under his skin, and Bob wanted more of it. He wanted something that he could have, for a change.

_I owe you roses, remember?_

He didn't bother putting his phone away, hoping that Spencer would reply immediately. He kept his eyes down, concentrating on the screen. He waited for less than a minute before he couldn't take it any longer. He didn't want to talk about this in tiny sentences and fragments of words, open to misinterpretation. It only rang twice before Spencer picked up at the other end.

"I could get a different kind of flower," Bob offered.

"You don't have to do this because you feel bad about sleeping with me," answered Spencer.

"That's not what this is about," said Bob.

"What is it, then?" asked Spencer. Through the cheap phone speakers he sounded tired, maybe confused or a bit hurt. "Because last night didn't start like anything but a hook up."

"It didn't end that way," said Bob, slowly. It was hard to put it into words, the change that had happened. Sure, the change had started with finding out that Spencer was a virgin, but it had gone further. The way they had laughed together so easily in the shower, the trust Spencer had shown him later. The way they had talked until they couldn't keep their eyes open any longer and he had fallen asleep with Spencer's head heavy on his shoulder and his hands resting securely on Bob's waist. The way he could remember everything about it, and he knew Spencer could too. "I'd like it to not end that way."

"So, what, then?" asked Spencer. There was no background noise down the line, and Bob could imagine Spencer in a tiny room backstage, squashed in with cleaning equipment, or maybe leaning against the door of the dressing room. He would have one hand crossed defensively over his chest while his hair swung down over his face and protected him from view.

"I want," said Bob, before stopping and taking a deep breath. "I want to see you again. I want to keep in touch, and come and see you play again. I want you to come and see me. I want to talk to you and learn more about you, and next time, I want us to know each other and be doing it for real." Bob hadn't had something that even approached real in a long time.

"For real?" echoed Spencer, as if he wasn't sure what that meant. Bob let him think about it, trying to wait him out, keeping his head down and not looking around the bustling airport lounge. He wished he was somewhere quieter, somewhere where he might be able to hear the shades of meaning in Spencer's breathing, if he tried. "Yeah," Spencer said, just as Bob was giving up hope. "Let's try that. For real."

"Great," said Bob, knowing that the relief was shining through his voice, but not caring.

"Bob?" asked Spencer, and it sounded like he was laughing. "I don't like roses."

"By the next time I see you, I will have figured out what kind of flowers you do like," said Bob. Spencer laughed harder at his end of the phone, the sound partially drowned out by a sudden explosion of noise.

"Okay, you do that. I have to go."

"Okay. Bye," said Bob, waiting till he heard the sound of the disconnection before snapping his phone shut and sliding it back into his pocket. He looked up, not bothering to hide his smile, to see Brian standing in front of him, tapping his foot and scratching irritably at his arm.

"Quite finished with your girlfriend?" he asked. "Grab your bags, asshole. You have soundcheck in an hour." Bob gathered his back and followed Brian through the airport. Brian's back was stiff and unyielding, full of tension, and Bob couldn't help the instinctive feeling that he should be doing something to make him feel better.

"Brian, slow down," he said.

"Fucking hurry up," replied Brian, voice clipped and terse. "We're going to be late."

Bob followed him out the rental car waiting outside, flinging his duffel in the back and sliding into the passenger's seat. Brian already had a cigarette between his lips, inhaling with a deep breath and letting it stream out his nostrils. Bob watched him slide his belt on and click it in, hands moving hastily and fingers almost shaking.

"Are you okay?" Bob asked, even though he knew Brian wouldn't give him a straight answer. Brian would brush him off, and disappear, and was never there when he was needed. Bob tipped his head back against the headrest and thought of the way Spencer placed his snare slightly to the left of the conventional positioning, and wondered if it might be a good idea to experiment.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**October 2005, Arizona**

Brendon looked up when he heard Spencer's quiet laugh. It was a sound they'd been hearing more lately, and he was glad about that. Really, he was. He turned his head to see Spencer leaning up against the wall a few metres away, and blinked rapidly when he saw that Ryan was not by his side. Ryan had been the only one able to make Spencer laugh for a long time now, so to see Spencer laughing, looking down at his Sidekick and thumbing over the keys, was unusual. That was the reason Brendon clung to, to explain why he was suddenly tense.

Smile lingering round his lips, Spencer pressed a button on his phone and looked down at the screen, obviously expecting an answer immediately. He looked loose and relaxed, and Brendon could see so many changes in him from the boy he'd met for the first time in his grandmother's garage, sitting behind a drum kit. This Spencer was taller, leaner, more confident and controlled. Brendon maybe missed the old Spencer, who hadn't had much concept of things like personal space, and whose smiles had included Brendon without reservation.

Ryan came round the corner and Brendon looked up guiltily, hoping he hadn't been caught staring at Spencer. Ryan merely raised an eyebrow and brushed past him, heading over to lean against the wall next to Spencer, shoulders nearly touching. Spencer glanced up from the screen and shared his smile with Ryan. Brendon figured that was as good as an invitation and sauntered over too, leaning close on Spencer's other side. The phone buzzed in Spencer's hand and Brendon glanced up from the screen lit up with Bob Bryar's name to the red flush that crawled over Spencer's cheekbones. Spencer turned the phone over.

"Dude, don't mind me," said Ryan, his voice clearly projecting amusement. "Just find somewhere more private if you're sending dirty text messages."

"Spencer's sending dirty text messages?" asked Brendon, trying hard to sound calm and collected. He hadn't realised that Spencer and Bryar had stayed in touch. Ryan snorted and Spencer reddened further, and Brendon didn't think he'd been very successful at sounding indifferent.

"Shut the fuck up," Spencer hissed.

"You fucking are, aren't you?" asked Ryan, bumping Spencer gently with his elbow. Spencer brushed against Brendon as he flinched away. Brendon wanted to know what was in the message, if it was dirty, if it was full of stuttered _want_ and _need_.

"You can tell us," said Brendon, keeping his voice light and elbowing Spencer in turn. "We're your friends." This was like high school, and how Brendon could remember Spencer and Ryan and the hesitant and breathless talk about girls. He could remember how this went, teasing Ryan about his girlfriend of the moment, Spencer about his latest crush, Brendon about his spazzy moves. Brendon pushed away the memory of Spencer's most disastrous crush and concentrated on the moment. Bob fucking Bryar and dirty text messages. Just like old times.

"Yeah, fucking right," said Spencer, and the sound of his voice, embarrassed and sarcastic at once, was achingly familiar.

"Go on, Spencer, I tell you everything," said Ryan. "The least you could do is tell me what Bob's saying. Does he want to know what you're wearing?"

"Fuck you," said Spencer, gripping his phone tightly and elbowing Ryan back. Brendon pressed a little closer and hooked his chin on Spencer's shoulder. It was a bit of a stretch for him now.

"Is that what he's saying, Spence?" asked Ryan, putting on a voice of mock outrage. "I thought he was a gentleman."

"You fucking did not," retorted Spencer. "Your _mom's_ a gentleman."

"Classy comeback," muttered Brendon.

"Come on, Spencer," said Ryan. "We just want to know if his intentions are still dishonourable, now that he totally got your v-card."

"Fuck you," hissed Spencer again, pulling away from the wall and dislodging Brendon from his shoulder. He was red right down under the neck of his t-shirt, and Brendon could see he looked mortified even though his hair was obscuring most of his face. Spencer flicked a look at Brendon, who stared back at him in shock, before he shoved Ryan hard and stalked off. Brendon heard his phone ring before he rounded the corner; heard him growl into it, "My fucking band."

"Huh," Brendon said, leaning back on the wall. Spencer had been a _virgin_. He was suddenly filled with burning anger against Bob Bryar, who had totally been some predatory skeeze. Brendon had seen it right off, when he'd touched Spencer, talked to Spencer, whisked Spencer away from the rest of them and taken him off to his hotel room. He'd been right to glare at him and hate the way his hands looked on Spencer's body. He turned back from the corner around which Spencer had disappeared to see Ryan watching him speculatively.

"Dude, what the fuck?" he asked, gazing back at him.

"Don't look so shocked," said Ryan. "He wasn't going to wait forever."

Brendon snapped his mouth shut, lips thinning into a line. They never fucking talked about this, and he liked it that way. He wasn't gay; he couldn't be. Whatever Spencer had seen, whatever made him think Brendon might reciprocate, it was a lie. A delusion.

"Whatever," he snapped at Ryan as he stalked off. He didn't need this; Spencer's changes, and Ryan's amusement, and Bob fucking Bryar and his fucking seduction.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

 

**December 2005, Los Angeles**

Spencer cocked his hips and glared down at Ryan, doing his best to project all the reasons why Ryan should shut the fuck up, without him actually having to say any of them to Ryan's face. The van had just pulled into the venue parking lot in the still of the morning, with all day ahead of them before the show, and two nights in a hotel to follow before they were back to Vegas for Christmas. Ryan sat back in the open door of the van and blinked up at Spencer. Spencer sighed and crossed his arms. He was going to have to say it.

"Ryan, shut the fuck up," he said. He didn't bother listening to Ryan's protests, merely continuing, "You can't think of any reason why I might not want to spend the day sightseeing around LA with you and Pete Wentz?"

Ryan's frown turned petulant. "You know he's crossed the line to skeevy stalker a couple of times," he whined.

"Take Brendon to protect your precious virtue," said Spencer. "It's LA. Who else is in LA right now?"

"Fuck, Spence, you're blowing me off for a booty call with your creepy older lover?"

"I can't believe I had to spell it out for you," grumbled Spencer. "And Bob's not creepy, Mr I-encouraged-Pete-Wentz-and-now-don't-know-how-to-escape."

"I'm desperate, please," said Ryan. "You know that Brendon will get distracted and then I'll be left trying to fend him off by myself."

"Suck it up," said Spencer. "I've been looking forward to this." He tried to stop himself from smiling, a small and anticipatory grin that reflected his mood, but he was pretty sure he was unsuccessful. Not that he cared, really, if Ryan saw it. He should be pleased that Spencer was happy. Spencer glanced at Ryan; he just looked sulky.

"I know you've been looking forward to it," said Ryan. "I sleep next to you in the van, and your whispering under the blankets is less than subtle. You owe me, and should totally make it up to me by coming out with me and Pete today."

"Fuck the fuck off, Ryan. Take Brendon _and_ Brent, for all I care. Bob is going to be here any minute, and then your delicate sensibilities are your own to defend."

"You can't spend all day having sex," protested Ryan. "Well, I mean, you might be able to, but Bob's a bit older. You could use that downtime to run interference for me."

"Fuck, no," said Spencer. "Aside from anything else, I'm sure Bob won't mind if the day's orgasm tally is weighted in my favour." He watched Ryan's face change from a disconsolate frown to a revolted scowl.

"Too much information, Spence," he said.

"You told me that there was no such thing as overshare between friends," replied Spencer.

"I meant for me!" protested Ryan. Spencer sat down next to him and slung his arm around his shoulders, hugging him close for a moment.

"This is kinda important for me, Ryan," Spencer said, quietly, suddenly serious as he tried to make Ryan understand. Even though it wasn't love, couldn't be love, Bob was still important and Spencer didn't want to mess it up. He felt his cheeks heat and knew he must be blushing, just over a tiny confession like that. Ryan had seen him through worse humiliations than admitting that Bob Bryar was hot and interested in Spencer, and that the interest was reciprocated. Hell, Ryan had seen him through Brendon, so this couldn't even compare.

"I know," said Ryan. "I know, and I'm happy for you, really."

"Things were kind of bad for a while there, huh?"

"Yeah," said Ryan. "It's better like this." He hugged Spencer back. "I can defend my own virtue, too."

"I know," said Spencer. "Otherwise, even Bob Bryar wouldn't be able to tempt me from your side."

A tiny car pulled into the venue car park, juddering over broken concrete to pull up next to the van just as Brent and Brendon rounded the corner of the venue. Spencer recognised Bob behind the wheel and stood, reaching into the van and pulling out his duffel, packed to the brim. Ryan smiled up at him.

"Hey, since you're going to be at his apartment for two nights, do you think you could take my washing?" he asked.

"What do you think is in here?" asked Spencer, already halfway to the car. "I'm not doing all of it, though, just enough that my mom won't think we never do it." Ryan laughed, and Spencer cast a wave over his shoulder as he opened the back door and pitched his duffel in, then got into the front seat.

"Hi," said Bob, turned slightly in his seat and looking at Spencer, his smile the one that Spencer had missed, the one that invited him to share a joke just between the two of them.

"Hi," said Spencer in return, raking his fingers through his hair and shifting slightly to face him. Bob leaned forward a little, then hesitated. Spencer's smile grew, until he knew it must be wide and dopey, but he didn't care. Just that little sign of nervousness made him brave. This was going to be okay; it didn't matter what happened between them, it would be okay. He closed the gap between them and cupped Bob's jaw with one hand, tilting his face for a kiss. The first press of his lips was soft, but he pushed closer still when Bob opened his mouth and invited Spencer in. They kissed for long moments, and Spencer could feel things clicking into place between them as they remembered how they fit together. Finally drawing back, Spencer looked at Bob's mouth, red now, with shiny lips, and he felt the gentle anticipation and nervousness he'd been feeling all morning coalesce into something hotter.

"Stop looking at me like that," said Bob, "or we won't make it back to my apartment. I don't think your band mates need to be traumatised that much."

Spencer turned his head to see Ryan with his hand theatrically over his eyes, Brent rummaging unconcernedly though a bag, and Brendon glaring at them, hands on his hips and lips pinched thin. Spencer looked back at Bob and licked his lips."Drive fast, then," he said. Bob groaned softly, but put the car into gear, heading out of the car park and into the street, still quiet this early in the morning. Spencer rested his head on the back of his seat and watched Bob drive.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Spencer slipped his shoes off and dumped his duffel by the door as he watched Bob toe off his own shoes, turn the bolt on the inside and drop his keys in a bowl on a table nearby. His eyes were itchy with tiredness, and he felt coated in endless layers of grime, but he had just watched Bob Bryar manoeuvring his car through the traffic, his hands firm and capable on the wheel. Spencer was half hard already, and he didn't want to wait.

"I feel like I spend half our time together with us trying to get into a shower," said Bob. "Do you think we might make it in there this time?"

"Maybe," said Spencer, smiling at Bob. "If we go straight there now without touching."

"Maybe," growled Bob. "If you don't fucking show me that smile."

"It's your house," said Spencer. "Lead on to the bathroom." Bob wrapped his fingers around Spencer's wrist in answer and pulled him along behind him, through a cluttered lounge and down a little hallway. Spencer kicked the door shut behind them and stripped off his shirt as soon as they were inside and Bob let him go. He popped the button on his jeans and shoved them down and off, kicking them off his feet. Straightening up, he saw Bob gaze at him hungrily, and felt a wave of arousal go through him. This was a lot like last time, facing each other in the bathroom with their lust written plainly on their faces, but this time Spencer felt only anticipation, no nervousness about whether he was going to be good enough.

Spencer stretched his arm into the shower stall and set the water running. He smiled when Bob pressed up against his back, still fully clothed.

"I thought we were going to make it into the shower first this time," he said.

"Fuck, maybe," said Bob. Spencer pushed him back a little and turned. He slipped the first button on Bob's shirt out of its hole, then the next. Bob gazed down at him with dark eyes, obviously restraining himself from touching. Spencer stroked his fingers over the newly exposed skin before going onto the next button. He tugged the last ones open quickly before easing the cotton shirt over Bob's shoulders and down his arms to pool at his feet. He leaned in to kiss Bob's shoulder, moving from the point in towards his neck with little nips and licks, while his fingers wrestled with Bob's belt. He drew back to glare at it.

"Did you wear this _on purpose?_" he asked, finally getting it open. Bob just smirked down at him, his hands still clenched at his side. Spencer left the leather through the loops and went straight for the button and zip, easing the denim open. Pushing both jeans and boxers down Bob's legs, Spencer let them puddle at his feet as he curled his fingers around the jut of Bob's hipbones and looked up at him, feeling hot and excited, anticipation burning through him brighter now that they were both naked.

Bob stepped out of his discarded clothes, herding Spencer backwards and through the gap in the shower curtain. Spencer went willingly, gasping in pleasure as the hot water streamed down over him, then again as Bob pulled him close into a kiss. They kissed lazily in the billowing steam, wet skin sliding together. Bob's hands ran all over Spencer's skin and Spencer arched into them helplessly, his own fingers digging into Bob's shoulders.

"Want you to come," said Bob. "I want to watch you." Spencer moaned and ground against Bob, rubbing his erection into his stomach. The friction was glorious, a white burst of sensation over his nerves. Bob slid one hand between them, palm flat on Spencer's cock. Spencer didn't care that he was going to come soon. He knew that he could come again, since they had all day. "I'm gonna get you off," muttered Bob into his ear. "Then get you clean and into my bed. Then I want to fuck you."

"Fuck, yes," panted Spencer. He twisted his hand in Bob's hair and tugged him closer, tilting his chin up to kiss him, hot and rough. Bob's hand was perfect on him, twisting over tender flesh. The water beat hotly on Spencer's shoulders and streamed over his skin. It was blissful, everything was blissful, and Spencer tipped his head back and moaned softly as Bob's fingers dragged over his cock in the perfect grip. "Feels so good, been waiting so long," Spencer said.

"Come for me," Bob rasped, before he sunk his teeth gently into Spencer's neck, just under his ear. Spencer felt the orgasm building hotly in his belly and raced towards it blindly. Bob's skin was slick against him compared to the rasp of his beard on Spencer's throat. Moaning, Spencer jerked into Bob's hand helplessly, coming all over it. Head dropping forward onto Bob's shoulder, Spencer let the grime of tour swirl down the drain.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Bob leaned a pliant and unresisting Spencer back against the tiles and reached for the soap. Fuck, Spencer was gorgeous, all pale skin and that smile. It was sleepy now, satisfied and bordering on smug. Bob was still hard, but he could wait. He wanted to wait. He wanted to spread Spencer out on his bed and kiss him everywhere, every inch of him available to Bob's hands and mouth. He loved the way Spencer let him do things, the attention Spencer gave him. He wanted more of it.

Hands slipping, Bob spread the soap over Spencer's skin. Spencer snorted a little giggle when Bob's fingers brushed over his armpits and down his sides, but he merely opened his legs wider and tilted his hips when Bob ran his fingers over his balls and down to his ass. Bob wanted to fuck him so badly. He'd been waiting for this, and he hoped Spencer had too. He'd been so nervous about going to pick Spencer up that morning, half-expecting to get there and be greeted by someone completely different to the guy he'd been texting; the guy he'd spent the night with in Chicago. He'd been so worried that Spencer would be suddenly cold, distant and unpredictable, but then Bob had seen him smile and the relief had been overwhelming.

Spencer's smile now had a slightly challenging edge, as if he was waiting to see what move Bob was going to make. Bob deliberately rubbed his finger over Spencer's hole, smirking slightly as he gasped.

"Ready to get out?" asked Bob.

"We can have another shower later," agreed Spencer, moving forward and directly under the spray to rinse off completely.

"We'll need another shower," said Bob, adding his hands to the water, swiping the suds away.

"As much as I needed a shower after that performance in Louisiana that I told you about?"

"At least that much. Possibly as much as I needed a shower after teching with The Used in South Carolina somewhere." Bob laughed softly and Spencer hummed happily into his skin.

"You'll have to tell me that story," said Spencer.

"It involves cheese whiz and ready-crushed garlic," Bob said as he reached around to turn the water off.

"Tell me about it _later_," said Spencer. His cock was hardening again slowly; Bob could feel it pressed against his thigh. He smiled against Spencer's wet hair for just a second, amazed at how good he felt. Spencer was right, getting his hands all over him was far more important. He pushed open the curtain and stepped out, reaching for a towel. He dragged the rough cotton over Spencer's skin, watching it turn pink under the friction. Spencer reached up to cup Bob's jaw and press kisses along it, and Bob nearly dropped the towel.

"Stop distracting me," he said. "We're gonna get out of the bathroom this time."

"Okay," said Spencer agreeably, starting to kiss down his neck as Bob transferred the towel to himself. Letting the towel slip from his fingers, Bob wrapped both of his arms around Spencer and brought their bodies into full contact. The slightly damp warmth of their skin rubbing together made Bob groan softly, the sound muffled at the end by Spencer's lips over his. Bob let Spencer control the kiss, hot but sweet and just what Bob wanted. He splayed his hands wider on Spencer's back and urged him as close as possible.

"Bed now," said Spencer, pulling back slightly. Bob removed his hands reluctantly from Spencer's skin, and instead led the way down the hallway into his room and over to his bed. Spencer stood in front of him, hips cocked and hands resting on them. Bob took a moment just to enjoy the sight of him.

"Lie down," Bob said, swallowing hard. "Let me look at you." He wanted to see Spencer spread out over his sheets, wanted to imprint it on his mind. Something about the image appealed to him in a deeply visceral way, like seeing Spencer in his bed would mean that he belonged to Bob somehow. Maybe Spencer would be Bob's in a way Bob had never had someone before. He wasn't sure where all this possessive need was coming from, but Spencer just smiled, slow and soft, like he saw inside Bob to the things he was thinking, and climbed onto the bed, stretching out on the cotton with his head on Bob's pillow.

"Do you like what you see?" Spencer asked.

"I do," said Bob, raking his gaze over the way Spencer's legs spread wide and inviting, and the way his arms tucked behind his head. He thought he could see a trace of nervousness on Spencer's face, like maybe he wanted to cover himself up, but mostly his expression radiated eagerness and hunger. He sat on the foot of the bed and stroked his fingers over Spencer's ankle, watching the way Spencer licked his lips, eyes darkening. Sliding his hand up to Spencer's knee, Bob leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of Spencer's thigh. He moved slowly, hands and mouth working over Spencer's skin as if he had all the time in the world. He knew that he'd have to have Spencer back for sound check later that afternoon, and that Spencer had a concert to play tonight and tomorrow and then he would be back in the van, but he wanted to pretend, right now. Spencer sighed and moaned and arched into each caress, matching Bob's mood and desire. Propping himself up over Spencer on his elbows, their bodies pressed together full length and rocking against each other minutely, Bob kissed Spencer like he was starving for the touch. Spencer threaded his hands through Bob's hair and kissed back slow and unhurried. When Bob finally pulled back, Spencer's lips were red and swollen and his eyes heavy and dark.

"Roll over," said Bob, pulling way just far enough. Spencer complied and Bob settled back down, bending his head to kiss between Spencer's shoulder blades, slowly moving down. Spencer's back was smooth and tasted faintly of soap and fresh sweat, and his tiny moans and gasps were muffled now, pressed into the crook of his arm where his head was pillowed. Bob moved down, fingertips smoothing over Spencer's ass and down his thighs, opening them further. Bob settled down on his belly behind Spencer and pressed a kiss to the cheek of his ass before he parted them and licked over Spencer's hole.

Moaning louder now, Spencer rocked back against him. Bob licked hard over the sensitive skin before pulling back and flickering his tongue quickly. He worked his way inside Spencer's body slowly with his tongue. He enjoyed the intimacy of this act; loved the fact that he was the first to give it to Spencer. He glanced up Spencer's body to see his hands fisted in the cotton of Bob's sheets, his mouth dropped open and his eyes shut, looking blissfully abandoned. There was no trace of nervousness now.

"Fuck, don't stop," said Spencer, eyes fluttering open. He looked wrecked, debauched and utterly sinful. Possessive pleasure worked its way over Bob's skin and he dropped his head again, this time adding his finger alongside his tongue.Spencer groaned low. "That's it, fuck," he moaned. "Bob, fuck." The sound of his name coming from Spencer's mouth in that pleasure-drunk tone spurred him on. Bob pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm and reaching for the lube on top of the dresser next to the bed. Spencer craned his head to watch.

"Let me watch you," Spencer said, and Bob couldn't move out of the way fast enough. He wanted to see Spencer open around his fingers and cock, even though he knew that it would be easier if Bob fucked him from behind. Spencer settled on his back, a high flush crawling down from his cheeks, over his throat and half of his chest. He looked wanton, gorgeous and filthy. He was all for Bob to enjoy.

"Now?" asked Bob. He itched to touch again.

"Fuck, yes, now," said Spencer. Bob didn't ask again, just squeezing some lube over his fingers and moving them back to Spencer's ass. It was still wet with Bob's spit, and a finger slid in easily. Spencer gasped, high and light. He wasn't hurrying Bob, or trying to direct the action. He was happy to let Bob set the pace, trusting him to get them both there in the end. Bob had nearly forgotten what this could be like. Spencer was so open and responsive to Bob's touch.

"Do you like this?" he asked, adding another finger and twisting them slightly, watching as Spencer twisted and thrust down on them in response. Spencer groaned and planted his feet on the bed to get better leverage, opening himself up further to Bob's gaze. Bob wanted to fuck him, had been ready for a while, but the sight of Spencer fucking himself on Bob's fingers was enough for now. He wanted this to be perfect for Spencer, wanted to take his time and make this the way that all first times should be; honest, real and good.

"It feels so good," said Spencer. "Give me more, I can take more."

"Soon," said Bob, angling his fingers to glance over Spencer's prostate. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like pleasing someone was this easy, made him feel this good. "I want this to be perfect for you."

"It's already perfect," said Spencer. "I've been waiting for this."

"Waiting?" asked Bob.

"Last time," gasped Spencer, rocking down a little harder. "Last time, you didn't fuck me. I wanted you to, wanted you so bad. I've been waiting."

"I wanted it to be special," said Bob. "I don't want..." He trailed off, not really sure how to answer that. He didn't want Spencer's first time, _their_ first time, to be quick or dirty or furtive. Seeing Spencer spread out over his own worn sheets in the bright sunshine of the morning was special.

"I know," said Spencer. He reached down, grasping Bob's other hand where it rested on Spencer's hip and threading them together. Bob pulled their joined hands up to his mouth, sucking on each of Spencer's fingers as he twisted the fingers of his other hand again, spreading them apart and slowly working Spencer open. He drew back and added a third finger and some more lube, watching Spencer avidly. He couldn't remember ever being with someone who responded so freely, and felt a momentary pang of regret. He pushed aside the memory of the past and concentrated on working his fingers to open Spencer up. He ached to be inside him.

"Now, Bob," said Spencer. His fingers were shaking in Bob's grasp.

"Are you sure?" asked Bob, not sure what the fuck he would do if Spencer said no and changed his mind now.

"Yes, Bob, yes, fuck," said Spencer. He fumbled on the dresser for the condom, ripping the wrapper open with his teeth and handing it over to Bob. Bob looked down at where he still held Spencer's hand in one of his, at where the fingers of his other hand were deep inside Spencer's ass. Huffing a laugh, Spencer said, "You'll have to let go of me for an instant."

"Don't want to let go," said Bob, smiling down at him even as he removed his fingers gently and let go of Spencer's hand. He took the condom and rolled it on, biting his lip and holding onto his control with an effort. "Grab a pillow, it will be easier."

Spencer folded the pillow in half and Bob shoved it under him when Spencer lifted his hips. He leaned forward, searching Spencer's face one last time for any trace of hesitation or fear, but only found a little nervousness mostly hidden under a lot of desire. Pressing forward, holding tight to the base of his cock, Bob bit his lip again as the head of his cock nudged against Spencer's hole. He pushed a little more, slowly working the tip inside. Glancing at Spencer's face, he read the look of concentration there, and edged forward a little more, as slowly as he could.

"It's good," said Spencer. "Just, slowly."

"Slowly," repeated Bob, feeling the sweat breaking out on his shoulders as he rocked back and forth, just the head of his cock inside. He pushed forward a little more, groaning softly with the effort of holding back. Spencer arched slightly underneath him, relaxing around him in gradual stages. Bob eased in a bit at a time, sliding in and out gently, keeping fierce hold on his control. Spencer let out a long, shuddering breath as Bob finally came to a halt all the way inside him.

"Fuck," said Bob, dropping his head to rest on Spencer's shoulder. His arms were taut with tension, his entire body straining against the desire to thrust into Spencer hard and fast like he wanted to. Spencer rocked up against him and ran his palms up over Bob's shoulder and round the nape of his neck. He pulled his fingertips down Bob's spine and down to his hips.

"Move," he said, softly, and moaned as Bob pulled out and pushed back in, one long, smooth stroke. "Feels good," he said, voice shaking slightly. "So much better," he started, then broke off to gasp as Bob thrust again. "Better than I thought it would be."

"Good," said Bob. "Can you touch yourself? Want to feel you get off."

Spencer moaned again as he fumbled for the lube and squeezed a blob into his hand, wrapping his palm around his cock and slicking it up. Bob could feel him relaxing further with every pass of his hand, and fucked in a little harder, desperate to hear more of the noises Spencer made on each thrust. Bob held onto his control tightly and watched, even as his eyes wanted to drift shut. Spencer's mouth was open, moaning almost continuously now, fucking loud and Bob didn't care what the neighbours might think, didn't care about anything. He kept his thrusts steady and even as he watched Spencer come apart underneath him, one hand on his cock and the other running restlessly up and down Bob's arm and side and around the back of his neck. Arching one last time, Spencer came hard and messy into his hand and over his belly. Bob clenched his teeth and rode it out with the same long, measured thrusts.

When Spencer relaxed back into the sheets at last, sated and boneless with his eyes half-closed and dark, Bob pulled out gently. He ignored Spencer's little noise of protest and pulled off the condom, working his hand over himself furiously. Spencer watched him, licking his lips and smiling, more than a touch smug now. Bob came with a groan, watching his come stripe over Spencer in long ribbons against the creamy skin. He barely held himself up, fixated on the sight of his come marking Spencer's skin. Spencer tugged him close, uncaring about the way their come mingled and smeared between them. Bob didn't care either. They needed another shower anyway, and then they would have time for all the other things they needed to do. Right now, all that mattered was the slow, shaky exhalations of Spencer's breath in his ear, and the way he felt cradled into Bob's side.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Brian leaned against the wall outside the apartment building, trying to remember why he was here, and how he had gotten here. The last stretch of time, days long, maybe, was all a blur in his memory, long moments of nothing and occasional events softened and made opaque through the chemical dulling of pills and alcohol. There had been laughter that tasted as bitter and metallic as sleeping pills on the tongue, and the quiet melancholy of strangers.

A van came to a stop just down from him, right outside the door to the building, and Brian vaguely wondered what it was doing here so early, or so late. The chill of the morning was still in the air, even though the sun was completely up. He wished the chill would clear his mind a little, even as he wanted to climb back inside the cotton-wool comfort of his haze of drugs.

Shaking his head, he looked up to see Bob Bryar emerge from the building. It made sense now, he must have come to see Bob. Then he looked a little more closely and saw the huge duffel Bob was carrying. Brian blinked. He would have remembered if MCR was going on tour now. He wouldn't have forgotten that. Panicking slightly, he pulled out his phone and flipped it open, trying to coordinate his fingers enough to press the buttons. He couldn't do it, and he lifted his head, intending to ask Bob, when he saw that Bob wasn't leaving after all.

More confused than ever, Brian watched as Bob heaved the duffel through the opened door of the van and turned to the man standing with him. Surely that was Bob's t-shirt, but not on Bob, on this stranger. They kissed, and Brian felt the vague urge to look away. He'd seen a lot, done a lot, and he couldn't even remember what he might have done in the last two days, but there was something intimate about the spread of Bob's hand over the other's shoulder blades, the fingers of the other hand sliding under the cotton so they must be touching skin. Something personal in the way they tilted their heads together and whispered to each other, so close that they must have been able to feel the movement of each other's lips. Brian felt dirty watching it, like he didn't deserve to even see it. The strength of Bob's shoulders was highlighted by the way the other man's fingers dug into them for a moment, and Brian licked his lips and swallowed hard as he remembered how he used to do that. One more kiss and then they were pulling apart, Bob stepping back onto the sidewalk and the other into the van.

Brian's eyes widened as he realised who they must be. Pete's littlest signing, Panic! at the Disco or something, he thought. Tiny, and just out of school. Brian had heard the rumour about Bob and one of them, and now he had seen it and it wasn't dirty or furtive or anything that rumour made it seem. This was something honest, more honest than Brian could remember ever having. Bob had kissed the kid right under the clear morning sun, sober and intent. Brian's senses were filled with the longing for another pill and a retreat into oblivion. The craving nearly drowned his dull regret for the lost sensation of the skin of Bob's shoulders under his hands.

The van pulled away, leaving Bob on the sidewalk with his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked up and turned, and Brian could see the jerk of surprise in his posture as he recognised Brian.

"This is unexpected," said Bob, coming closer. Brian suddenly realised what he must look like, stinking of alcohol and sweat and maybe the dankness of anonymous sex. His clothes were rumpled and stained, and he felt dirty, decayed and rotten inside. He was strung out on pills, hazy with booze, desperate to get high or get clean. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to face the day sober.

"Bob," he said. He held his hands out in front of him and they shook so hard that he dropped his phone. He looked from them to Bob, hating the rawness of his voice, hating that he couldn't hold himself together. But he'd reached bottom, and he wanted change. "I need," he started. "I don't know how it got this bad," he said, meaning _I don't know when I lost you, I don't know when I lost myself_. He thought Bob must have got all the meanings, coming toward him with his face creased in concern

"Can you make it inside by yourself?" asked Bob, picking up Brian's phone and restoring it to his hand. His fingers lingered there, warm and strong and not flinching at all from the layers of dirt on Brian's skin, ingrained right underneath it. "Come on," he urged. "Let's go inside and talk about it. Let's get you some help." Brian curled his hands around Bob's, letting himself be pulled upright and steadied. Bob's eyes were kind, not pitying, and his hands and voice were firm, shaping the limits of what Brian could concentrate on. He followed them, through the arch of the doorway and across the foyer. Nowhere to go but up from here. He tightened his grip on Bob and took the first step.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Bob sighed and concentrated on scrolling through his contacts on his Sidekick. The coffee machine dripped and gurgled behind him, and Brian was sitting silently on the couch, waiting for a coffee and for a plan to unfold for him. Bob wasn't sure he had ever seen Brian so passive, so quiet and unfocused. Gerard was on his way over, Frank and Mikey probably not too far behind. Only Ray to go, and then they would be standing around Brian and working through the next steps. Bob cursed under his breath. He should have seen this. There was no way Brian should have been able to get to rock bottom without him noticing.

A dull thud from the couch made him look up from his phone quickly, to see Brian standing up, swaying on his feet.

"Gotta piss," he said. Bob watched him go, ready to lend assistance if needed, but he knew it was important to Brian to do as much as he could by himself. He remembered how Brian had avoided his eyes, downstairs, how his hands had shaken. Bob was sure his own hands were shaking, filled with remorse, fear and shame that he hadn't seen the problems sooner. That he hadn't put together the puzzle of Brian's unpredictability, his absences, his edginess. Bob turned back to the coffee machine and his phone, finally finding Ray's number and waiting for him to answer. He told the same story, in the same sparse words, glossing over the grey pallor of Brian's skin, the despair and pain in his voice when he had asked for help. He just asked Ray to come over.

Closing his phone for the last time, Bob slipped it back into his pocket and wandered down the short hallway. He couldn't hear Brian at all and hoped he hadn't passed out on the floor. The door was wide open, but Brian wasn't in there and Bob panicked for a moment, wondering if he could have left without Bob seeing. Then he walked a little further down the hallway to the door to his bedroom.

Brian was passed out on rumpled sheets. Bob and Spencer had been in a hurry once they finally got out of bed, throwing clean washing into his duffel, rushing through a shower and a coffee, hardly able to stop touching each other. Changing the sheets or making the bed had been the last thing on either of their minds, intent only on the dwindling minutes they had together and the touch of skin and lips together. Now Brian was sprawled out on the cotton, adding another, different, layer of dirt to the smell of sex and sweat left behind by Bob and Spencer.

Bob's lips twisted as he looked down at Brian, thinking about all the times he'd imagined seeing the other man in his bed, and how all he felt now he had it was the bitter taste of regret and shame. The image of Spencer smiling at him sleepily and making grabby hands for the coffee Bob had been carrying was mixed up in his head now, and he felt his stomach turn. Brian had never fitted in his bed, had never been more than a drunken hook-up, and Bob had been crazy to imagine that he might be more. Still, he watched Brian's chest rise and fall steadily, watching him sleep, going over in his head the countless things he should have seen, should have noticed, should have done.

The door to his apartment opened and closed again behind Gerard, pale and rumpled with his mouth set in a tight line. Bob knew he'd be feeling just as sick and ashamed as Bob for not seeing this before now. Perhaps even more, since Brian was the one who had picked him up and helped him get himself put back together. Gerard toed off his shoes and padded down the hallway to join Bob, taking in the sight of Brian, broken-down and vulnerable on the dirty bed. Gerard turned to Bob with his eyebrows raised, and Bob realised suddenly how it must look, with Brian passed out in his bed, which reeked of sex.

"Dude, no," he said, humiliated that Gerard could even think that. "He arrived this morning. I wouldn't." Gerard turned to look at him more fully.

"You used to," he said.

"Gerard!" said Bob, raking his hand through his hair, knowing that he was starting to blush. "Dude. When we were both fucked up, sometimes. But not like this. Never like this. I had someone else here last night." He looked away, his ears burning in mortification. Gerard's hand curled around his neck, thumb brushing over a bruising bite mark low on his throat.

"Obviously," he said.

"Fuck, have you never heard of boundaries?" asked Bob, pushing Gerard away. The embarrassment was fading into low anger, worse for being partly at himself. "Let's have a coffee and leave him to sleep."

"He doesn't look right there," said Gerard.

"Just leave it," said Bob. He didn't want to talk about Brian and the things that might have been. He led the way into the kitchen and curled his fingers around the edge of the counter, remembering how Spencer had pinned him against it this morning, just a couple of hours ago, how they had kissed while their coffee cooled, barely pulling back enough to gulp it down before he had to leave. He thought of Spencer's reddened lips and dark eyes. He realised that he had stopped thinking about Brian like that, slowly, bit by bit, and all that was left now was a sore spot filled with might-have-beens, drowning at the moment under worry.

"Sorry," said Gerard. Glancing over his shoulder, Bob saw him standing in the doorway. His face was ashen and Bob straightened up, turning and holding his arms out. No matter how bad he felt, he knew that Gerard would be feeling worse. Gerard stepped in close, sliding his arms around Bob and holding tight. He buried his head in the crook of Bob's neck and Bob cradled him close, stroking his hand down his back soothingly. The anger was gone as if it had never been, leaving just the sick churning of worry in his gut.

"I know you'd never," Gerard said.

"It's okay," Bob replied. Gerard squeezed him hard.

"You don't smell like sex, if that's any consolation," he said.

"Thanks," said Bob. "That would be because I showered." Gerard snickered shakily into Bob's shoulder and slowly let go.

"Was it that boy? The one from Pete's band?"

"His name is Spencer," said Bob, meeting Gerard's eyes squarely, if only briefly. Gerard nodded thoughtfully.

"He makes you smile," he said. "That's good. You've been looking happier."

Bob looked down at his feet, acutely uncomfortable. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready to talk about his feelings with Gerard, certainly not on something as tenuous and undefined as his relationship with Spencer. He remembered the last press of Spencer's lips to his, right before he climbed into the van. Frank barreled in the door then, straight into the embrace Gerard turned and offered, and Bob reached to get the coffee cups down and hoped that Spencer was comfortable and catching up on his sleep, curled into a corner of the van wearing Bob's t-shirt and the vague imprint of Bob's sheets still on his cheek. He knew they would fade fast, but he hoped that Spencer would still feel them when he woke.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**December 2005, Las Vegas**

Spencer stared up at the ceiling in his bedroom at home and wondered how it could feel smaller than the van, the walls closer and more confining. His parents were at work, his sisters at school, and Spencer felt restless but not motivated enough to do anything about it. They had been back for three days, and Spencer had done nothing but eat and sleep and snatch moments of hurried conversation with Bob. He worried, able to hear the tiredness and muted fear in Bob's voice. Spencer let Bob ramble down the phone, uncharacteristically talkative about the times that he and Brian had toured together, young and invincible and stinking of sweat and dirt and beer in the back of a van with The Used and My Chem. Spencer listened, letting Bob talk himself out, winding down to sad little silences where Spencer wished he was there to wrap his arms around Bob and squeeze him tight. He avoided thinking about the moments where it became obvious that there was an undercurrent of regret in Bob's voice.

Sighing, he turned over to lie on his side and look at the door instead. He wasn't sure when things had shifted for him, from Bob being a tour hook-up, a safe someone to lose his virginity with, to being someone important. Someone that he wanted to comfort and keep safe. He closed his eyes and remembered Bob's face as the van pulled away from the kerb, how he'd stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Spencer leave. Spencer touched his lips as if he could feel the fugitive pressure of his last kiss there still.

The banging on the front door was a surprise. Rolling off the bed, Spencer shuffled downstairs in his bare feet and pulled the door open. Brendon stood on the other side, looking pale and nervous, huddled into his hoodie with his hands jammed into his pockets.

"Hi," he said. Spencer blinked, then stood aside to let him in. Brendon waited awkwardly in the little hallway as Spencer shut the door behind him. Brendon looked at him and Spencer looked back expectantly. He had no idea what Brendon was doing here. After two tense shows in LA, they had driven back to Las Vegas with Brendon silent and moody behind the wheel or in the passenger seat. He had dropped them off in more silence, leaving Spencer and Ryan with Spencer's family with hardly a word exchanged.

Spencer wasn't sure what was going on for Brendon. Things had been slowly going back to normal between them for a while, as they found their feet on stage and touring together. It had stopped hurting so much to look at him and know that he thought Spencer was _wrong_, sick and abnormal for liking boys. The first few days had been hell, and even Ryan's presence by his side and his comforting hand on Spencer's back hadn't helped. But first things got easier; then they got strange again, with Brendon's silent glares every time Spencer started texting, or talked about Bob with Ryan. Spencer was done lying, though, he was not going to pretend to be straight just to make Brendon happy. So he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Brendon to speak.

"Can we talk?" asked Brendon.

"Okay," said Spencer. "Kitchen?"

Brendon just nodded and stepped aside, waiting for Spencer to lead the way. He kicked off his shoes and followed quietly, only the pad of his feet giving him away.

Spencer busied himself making coffee, getting out the soy milk his mother kept for Brendon and putting it on the counter while the machine whirred. He checked the cups and spoons for cleanliness and found the right type of sugar, conscious of Brendon standing silently at the other end of the table, hands braced on the back of a chair. Finally he turned, leaving the coffee machine to hiss softly behind him.

"What did you want to talk about?" he asked.

"I've been thinking," Brendon started. Then he stopped and shook his head, seemingly trying to put his thoughts in order. Spencer just waited for him, looking at him and seeing his friend, someone he loved, without the sharp pain of longing. His friend, shuffling his feet and looking uncomfortable. A part of him, the part that was still trying to get out of old habits of caring for Brendon and looking after him, wanted to prompt him to speak, to fold his arm around Brendon's narrow shoulders and hug him close, wait for him to whisper his confidence into Spencer's t-shirt.

"Um," said Brendon, "this is really hard. Harder than I thought it would be."

"What is it?" asked Spencer, finally taking pity on him.

"It's just," started Brendon again, before stopping and laughing ruefully at himself. It was such a genuine Brendon moment that Spencer smiled too, not able to help himself. Something about Brendon's smile was still infectious.

"Fuck it," said Brendon, rounding the table and pressing against Spencer. His arms came round Spencer's chest tightly and Spencer stared down at the top of his head in confusion. He had no idea what was going on. Bringing his hands up tentatively, he rested them on Brendon's shoulders. Brendon lifted his face from Spencer's neck, licking his lips nervously and looking up at Spencer. Then he rose up on tiptoes and pressed his mouth to Spencer's, wet and unexpected, and Spencer blinked, trying to process the feeling of Brendon's lips against his in a slick and messy kiss. His fingers tightened in Brendon's t-shirt for a second before he pushed him away. He put his fingers to his lips as he stared at Brendon across the short stretch of kitchen floor.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Brendon steadied himself on the kitchen counter and gazed at Spencer hopefully, waiting for him to speak. For him to smile and open his arms, inviting Brendon back into their circle. Spencer stared at him across the room, the fingers of one hand pressed to his lips, his eyes wide. Then his hand dropped and his posture changed, hands going to his hips and eyes narrowing.

"What the fuck?" he said, voice, low and deadly with a fine edge of anger threading through it. Brendon tried to step back further, away from Spencer's anger.

"Spencer, I just," Brendon started. "I was wrong, so wrong. It's you, Spencer, it's always been you. For me, I mean. I was just too stupid to see it." He spread his hands out in front of himself, palms up, wishing for Spencer to see inside him to the months of self-doubt and fear, the time he'd spent realising that he didn't hate Spencer for liking boys, but that maybe he did hate himself. He wished Spencer could have seen the moment when Brendon realised that he was in love with Spencer, and probably had been since they met. He wished Spencer could know how much Brendon regretted pushing Spencer away the first time he kissed him.

Spencer's gaze dropped and he chewed his lip. Brendon took a step forward, keeping his hands spread out wide and beseeching. He wanted Spencer to lift his head and smile at him, that shy, happy little smile he'd given Brendon a thousand times before Brendon figured out what it meant. He would give anything to see it now. He wanted to fit his own smile to it, let it melt into a kiss that took that feeling and sank it into his bones.

Spencer's head lifted and Brendon's heart sank and his smile disappeared at the troubled, distant look on his face.

"Spencer?" he asked.

"I think you should go," said Spencer. His voice was low and a little rough, like he was holding himself back. He met Brendon's eyes squarely for just a moment. "It's too late," he said.

"It can't be," said Brendon.

"It is," replied Spencer. "Go. I'm not that boy anymore."

Brendon opened his mouth, a thousand pleas and begging justifications on his tongue, already reaching out like he was going to shake them into Spencer. He wanted Spencer to forget the last months, to wind back to the night on the balcony under the stars and look at him with that expression of hope and longing. Brendon knew what to do with the feelings he had now, he knew how he wanted that kiss to end. He wanted to open his lips under Spencer's and let him inside. He wanted to kiss back and never let Spencer go.

"Brendon, no," said Spencer. He crossed his arms over his chest defensively and ducked his head, and Brendon was suddenly reminded of the way he'd held himself, folded in and battered looking, back when things had been really bad between them. Stepping back hastily, until he was pressed back against the other counter again, Brendon swallowed hard. The light streamed in the windows of the kitchen in bright bars, but all Brendon could think of was countless nights of moonlight or the orange lights of gas stations and the hunched and self-protective curve of Spencer's shoulders.

Turning, Brendon left the kitchen, walking blindly down the hallway and putting his shoes on while keeping his mind as blank as possible. He shut the door quietly behind himself and headed down the path, one foot in front of the other. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the pattern in the pavers in front of him, counting the steps he took away from Spencer. He didn't run, not this time, and he kept his mind focused on the even tread of his shoes, one step after another.

Under his resolute concentration, thoughts of Spencer swirled and jostled for his attention. He ignored them all, holding tight to his control. He had been so hopeful that Spencer would say yes to him, and he felt curling tendrils of anger alongside his shock and hurt. The image of Bob Bryar, head bent over Spencer's as his hand slid under the hem of his shirt, flitted into Brendon's mind and he scowled. He'd seen how they looked together, but he'd thought it was just sex. Hoped it was just sex.

He walked steadily, forcing his body to follow the rhythms he was used to, a touch point of normalcy against the way his head was starting to ache and his eyes burned with tears. He didn't want to think about Spencer, smiling to himself in a borrowed shirt, with a bite mark on his neck and the lingering smell of Bob's soap on his skin, from that last morning in LA. He didn't want to think about how he'd been the first time, either, wrapped in his hoodie and curled in the back with Ryan, their heads together as they whispered to each other, a shy smile curving Spencer's lips.

Brendon pushed open the door to his apartment and stopped on the threshold. Music flooded through the room from the stereo he'd left on, and he looked round at the unusual state of cleanliness. He'd scrubbed and tidied with Spencer in mind, in case he'd wanted to come back here with him. He'd imagined Spencer against each surface, imagined the two of them sprawled on his freshly made bed. He kicked the door shut behind him and made it to the bed, falling onto his face and burrowing into the clean sheets. Tears leaked out the corners of his tightly shut eyes, and Brendon gave himself over to his hurt.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Spencer didn't look up, even when he heard Ryan sigh as he leaned against the door frame. He kept his eyes fixed on the book spread out on his pillow, resting his chin on one hand as he concentrated on the words, keeping the lines of type firmly fixed in his mind. He wished he had his earphones in, so the sound of the music would cover the tap of Ryan's foot on the floor.

Ryan didn't move, simply staring down at Spencer. Spencer turned a page. He wondered if Ryan had seen Brendon yet. He didn't really want to know. He wanted to forget the whole thing. He started at the top of the new page, reading through each line with care. He had nearly managed to convince himself that he was paying attention to the text when Ryan moved. Crossing the floor, he sat on the edge of the bed and draped himself over Spencer's back, hooking his chin over Spencer's shoulder. Spencer turned another page.

"You are mopey," Ryan announced. "Mopey and uncommunicative."

"I'm reading," replied Spencer, keeping his voice very even.

"I know I'm usually an unobservant ass," started Ryan, poking Spencer in the arm as he mumbled, "Usually?" on a little snort of derision. "As I was saying," continued Ryan, "_usually_. But I'm paying attention today, and I can see that something is wrong. Don't even front, you know I know."

"But do you know I know you know?" asked Spencer.

"Spencer," said Ryan, draping himself a little more heavily over Spencer's shoulders, "you know I'm not going to drop this. Tell me what's wrong."

Spencer sighed and looked down at the page in front of him. He really didn't want to have this conversation. He knew that Ryan and Brendon were only just relaxing around each other again, and he didn't want to fuck that up for them. That was the main reason, he thought fiercely, even though he knew he was lying to himself. He thought of all Ryan's possible reactions, from anger with Brendon onwards and sighed again. He shut his book and dropped it over the edge of the bed, ignoring Ryan's little squeak of annoyance. He fell forward on the mattress, burying his face in his folded arms. Ryan let go of him and Spencer didn't have to turn his head to see Ryan's image behind his eyes, his bitten lip and worried expression.

"What would you say if I told you that Brendon kissed me?" Spencer asked.

"Get your face out of your arms, I couldn't understand a thing," said Ryan.

Spencer lifted his face the barest fraction and mumbled, "Brendon kissed me." He buried his face back into his arms, sure that he was blushing furiously. Ryan was silent for long moments before his hand came to rest between Spencer's shoulder blades, light and comforting in a way that made Spencer's cheeks heat further and his eyes prickle uncomfortably with tears. He turned his head to the side so he could breathe freely, but keep his face turned away from Ryan.

"So," said Ryan finally, "I'm guessing that since you're here and not as his place that you turned him down."

"No shit," said Spencer.

"Fuck," said Ryan. "You said no?"

"Isn't that just what I said?" asked Spencer.

"Is it Bob?" asked Ryan. Spencer buried his face in his arms again. The last thing he wanted was to have this conversation with Ryan, who was obtuse and oblivious except for when Spencer really wanted him to be that way.

"I don't know," he muttered. His face was burning hot, and he felt like he might cry. He hadn't cried at all since Brendon had come into his kitchen and pressed his lips, the lips Spencer had dreamed about and lusted over for months, over Spencer's mouth. He didn't want to cry. He wanted it to stop, this sick feeling of second guessing himself. He suddenly felt a nagging ache in the place where he'd cut off his love for Brendon and let it grow a lump of scar tissue instead, unsightly and tender. He could remember how happy this would have made him, just a few months ago.

Shaking off Ryan's hand, Spencer rolled onto his side and glared up at him. Ryan stared back down and Spencer could see the worry there in his face. Worry for him, for the band, worry for Brendon. Spencer punched him lightly in the arm and smiled as best he could. It was probably shaky and watery, but Spencer didn't care.

"I told him that I'm not that boy anymore," Spencer said.

"You're not," said Ryan. His face was a little troubled. "It's not a bad thing. You've put yourself back together differently, that's all. You're a bit... I don't even know."

"Did you just voluntarily talk about someone else's personal growth?" asked Spencer, trying to turn the conversation. Ryan shook his head and leaned forward. He wrapped his arms around Spencer, shuffling onto the bed and wriggling until he was close. Spencer sighed and snuggled into him, secretly glad of the comfort.

"It's not," he started. Then he paused for a moment. "We're not, Bob and I, I mean, we're not the millennium's true story of romance, you know? I mean, I'm 18 and I play music for a fucking living and so does he. Who knows what will happen?"

"Not planning on adopting Chinese orphans, then?"

"Shut the fuck up," said Spencer. "You think this is fucking easy for me?"

"Sorry," said Ryan, quietly. He stroked his hands through Spencer's hair, and Spencer could feel him waiting. Ryan wanted to understand, he wanted it all to make sense. Spencer wanted it to make sense too, but all his thoughts and feelings were tangled up and knotted hard in his chest.

"I just. I don't want to drop him and snatch up Brendon, you know? Bob's something special, and Brendon's like a fairytale, like something I wanted but knew I could never have. Even now, it feels like... like he's through the looking glass from me, even though I've stood right next to him for years."Spencer huffed another sigh and smiled into Ryan's shirt. "Now I sound like I've been reading those pretentious fucking douche novels that you love so much. Did that even make sense?"

"Yeah," said Ryan. "It did. I think Bob looks after you more in a couple of months that I've ever managed in years."

"Fucking bullshit," said Spencer. "You're never going to get rid of me, Ryan." They lay in silence for long moments more. Spencer closed his eyes and let the warmth of Ryan's body heat him through his shirt. Ryan felt safe and familiar, worn in by long years of intimacy of this kind.

"Look," said Spencer, breaking the silence but not opening his eyes. "I need you to be there for Brendon, this time. He's going to need it. And I can't let this fuck up the band. The band comes first." Spencer felt Ryan's breath exhale in a long whoosh as he relaxed completely, letting go of some tension he'd been holding for a long time. He knew that was one of the things Ryan was terrified of, and it felt good to soothe it. It was the first good feeling that day. Spencer could feel the strain unravel in Ryan, ease in himself, and smiled. This smile wasn't shaky. He pressed it into Ryan's shirt and held on tight.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**December 2005, Los Angeles**

Brian looked round his bedroom, now stripped bare and empty. He shoved the last few things into the top of his duffel, the instructions from the rehab centre spinning slowly through his head, _clothes, toiletries, books and music that aren't going to fuck you up again, no triggers, no drugs_. He was terrified at the thought, still so shaky, sick and desperate for something to calm his nerves. He shut the top of his bag and dragged it out to the living room where Bob was sitting on the sofa, reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette.

Breathing in deeply, Brian tried to control his urge to scream or kick something. Bob and Gerard had been round constantly. Three fucking days since he'd woken up in Bob's bed, disgusted with himself and stinking, and he'd barely been allowed to take a piss or a shower by himself. He let his breath out shakily, deliberately unclenching his hands from fists.

"I'm done," he said, and Bob looked up.

"Gerard's gonna be here in five to take you to the airport," he answered. Brian perched on the edge of the sofa and fumbled for a cigarette, barely able to handle his lighter. Bob didn't move to help him, though Brian could tell he was holding himself back from offering a light. Brian finally got the flint to catch and held the flame to the end of his cigarette, dragging the smoke in deeply and letting it out with a long, irritated huff of breath. His skin felt tight and itchy, and he needed to sleep so badly, even though he was sure he wouldn't be able to.

"Thanks for looking after me," said Brian, just as the silence stretched out into uncomfortable. He tried not to fidget.

"I shoulda been looking after you a lot sooner," said Bob, leaning back on the sofa. Brian shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't want you looking after me," he said. Bob laughed, a bitter edge to it.

"I know. Believe me, I figured that out."

Brian took another drag on his cigarette and rubbed his free hand roughly over the leg of his jeans. He wasn't quite sure what Bob was getting at, but he could hear the regret there, sharp and poignant under his reserve. He thought of Bob's face, the morning he'd turned up there desperate to get clean and with no where else to go. He thought of how Bob had kissed that kid goodbye, open under the morning sun. He remembered his regret, and things clicked in his head. The way Bob had looked at him sometimes, long and consideringly, like he was looking for something in him. Brian hated himself for never realising just what he was looking for.

"I never knew," he said.

"You were never supposed to," said Bob.

"Maybe," started Brian, but he trailed off and took another long drag on his cigarette instead. There was no _maybe_.

"There was never any maybe," said Bob, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. Brian nodded, slowly and thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry," he said. Bob shook his head this time. "Fuck," Brian said, "I wish. Shit, I don't even know what I wish. I wish things were different. I wish things had never gotten so bad." He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and drew out another, turning his lighter over and over in the fingers of his other hand. He still felt itchy and tense, like he was going to jump out of his skin any moment, but now his stomach felt heavy with lost possibilities.

"Forget it," said Bob. "Just concentrate on getting better." Brian scrubbed his hand over his head and fought the urge to pace or twitch. He took a long breath and let it out. He couldn't forget, not now that he'd seen it. Not now that he'd put together the pieces. It had never been just drunken hook-ups for Bob, and Brian felt a wave of shame over that too, over leaving Bob hanging with the scraps of cheap affection that he had to share.

"That kid," said Brian, abruptly. "That kid, I saw you with him. What are you doing here with me?" He'd seen the way they looked at each other, seen the sure possessiveness in Bob's hands as he touched him. Bob shifted uncomfortably, looking away from Brian. He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, burned down to the filter, and he threw it into the ashtray. Brian lit his own cigarette.

"I'm not here cause I'm fucking pining or anything, okay?" said Bob.

"No, fuck, no, I didn't mean that. I meant. Fuck, I meant, it looked real, you know. Honest." Brian could feel the words wanting to come out of him, how they had looked together in the morning light, how he'd felt regret and sadness under the layers of fucked up craving, how he wanted Bob to be happy. He wanted Bob to have whatever he wanted, something better than he could imagine from his place on the couch, three days clean and not seeing further than the plane flight ahead of him.

"Yeah," said Bob, finally, turning his head and looking at Brian. "He's something. I don't know what, but he's something."

"Go to him," said Brian, not able to stop himself from blurting it out, now that he'd started. Bob smiled, finally, scratching his neck and ducking his head.

"Let's get you on this plane first, before I worry about driving to Vegas." His phone rang as he finished, Gerard's ring tone breaking the moment between them. Brian smiled, the heavy feeling in his stomach easing a little. He thought maybe he could get on the plane now, concentrate on getting clean and staying clean. Bob grabbed Brian's duffel and headed for the door. Brian fell into step behind him, content to follow him out the door.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

**December 2005, Las Vegas**

Bob flipped open his Sidekick and leaned back against the passenger door of his car, feet propped up on the kerb. The street was deserted in the thin sun of the late afternoon in the quiet of the suburbs. He had forgotten that Spencer lived at home, hadn't remembered at all until he was nearly in Vegas. He hoped he wasn't fucking up big time, just appearing here, and replayed their last conversation in his mind, the one they'd had just before he'd taken Brian back to his apartment to pack. _Anything,_, Spencer had said, _I wish there was something I could do_.

His thumb hovered above Spencer's number on his speed dial, but he looked up at the click of the front door. Shutting his phone and sliding it back into his pocket, he waited for Spencer to cross the lawn, coming to a stop just in front of him. Bob looked at him for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of him. Spencer looked a little worried, biting on his lip, his hands on his hips. Spencer looked so perfectly ordinary that Bob felt his palms itch with the desire to touch him.

"I brought you flowers," Bob said, finally. A huge smile bloomed over Spencer's face, then, and he started to laugh. Bob held out his arms and Spencer was in them in a second, his arms around Bob's neck and his laughing mouth pressed against Bob's throat.

"Roses?" Spencer asked, pulling back just enough that he could see Bob's face.

"You told me that you don't like roses," said Bob. His hand was sure on Spencer's back, resting low on the slight curve of his waist. Spencer lifted himself up on tiptoes, peering over Bob's shoulder to see into the passenger seat. His fingers dug into Bob's shoulders and Bob pressed him just a little closer, bringing them together enough that their hips touched.

"Violets?" asked Spencer, sliding back down but not moving away. His back arched as he looked up into Bob's face.

"White violets," said Bob. He looked away from Spencer's face, looking down and thinking of how effortlessly the two of them fitted together. "The florist told me. Uh." He shuffled his feet a little, feeling his ears starting to heat. He hoped Spencer wouldn't think this was stupid, would take it as it was meant.

"Tell me," said Spencer. His hands were gentle on Bob's skin, smoothing up each side of his neck so Spencer could rub his thumbs over the curve of his jaw.

"They mean 'let's take a chance on happiness'," said Bob. He looked up again, finally, and Spencer kissed him. Bob kissed back, standing out on the street outside Spencer's parents' house where anyone could see them. He'd never had a kiss like this before, right out in the open. Spencer was something special, and Bob loved that.

"Want to bring those flowers inside?" asked Spencer as he pulled back. Bob looked up at the house and then back at Spencer.

"Is that okay?" he asked. "I didn't ring or anything, I know. I booked a hotel room though."

"No one's home right now," replied Spencer. "Tell me more about this hotel room."

"There's a hot tub," said Bob. "I thought the flowers might not be enough persuasion."

"A hot tub," said Spencer. "That's pretty nice." He stepped back completely and waited for Bob to get the flowers from the seat and lock the car before leading the way into the house. "Are we gonna have matching his and his robes?" he asked, over his shoulder.

Bob followed behind him, trying hard not to be distracted by the sway of Spencer's hips in his tight girl's jeans. Now that he was here and the first nervous adjustment of seeing Spencer was over, all Bob wanted to do was get him naked and kiss him until he was dizzy. "No robes," he said, licking his lips. Spencer pushed the door open and kicked his shoes off. Bob handed him the pot containing the flowers and knelt down to get the laces of his shoes. He glanced up to see Spencer standing over him, hips cocked and smile firmly in place.

"You keep standing there like that," said Bob, "and I'm gonna forget my resolve not to besmirch you under your mother's roof."

"She won't be back from work for another hour," said Spencer.

"You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to help," Spencer pointed out. Bob finally finished with his laces and stood, toeing off his shoes to join the pile by the door. He reached out and removed the flowers from Spencer's hand and put them on the table next to the door. Spencer looked up at him with a challenging lift to his chin, smirking as Bob's hands wrapped round his hips and spun him round, shoving him up against the wall by the table. Bob bent his head to nuzzle under Spencer's ear, pressing hot kisses to the smooth skin. He tasted just how Bob remembered, and the soft little whimper he made when Bob scraped his teeth over a spot at the base of his throat was just as heady as in Bob's memory.

"The things I want to do to you will take more than an hour," said Bob. Spencer brought one hand up to tangle in Bob's hair, sliding the other under his jacket and shirt at the back, smoothing over the curve of flesh at his hips. Bob lifted his face and Spencer tugged him forwards into a kiss, hot and messy. Spencer's teeth bit down into Bob's lip before he pulled gently on his lip ring. Bob groaned softly, using his hands and body to pin Spencer securely against the wall and press their entire bodies together. He opened up to Spencer's tongue, kissing back with all the want and desire he could show.

"Spencer, you have to, whoa, what the fuck?" came a voice from behind Bob, and he jumped back as if burned. Hastily wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he looked up to see Ryan Ross staring at them with a look that mingled surprise with long-suffering exasperation. Bob looked back at Spencer. Despite the glare that Spencer was levelling at his friend, Bob could see how red his lips were, and the obvious line of his cock pressing hard against his jeans. Swallowing hard, Bob looked away before he gave in to the urge to kiss him again.

"Fuck, Ryan, why have you never learned to knock?" demanded Spencer, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Ryan didn't answer, looking instead from Bob to Spencer to the pot of violets on the table next to them. Bob saw the moment that he put it all together just before he started laughing hysterically.

"Shit, really?" gasped Ryan. "Flowers, he brought you _flowers_?" Bob buried his face in his hands and groaned, looking up only when a loud smack sounded through the small entrance way and the laughter was cut off in favour of cursing.

"Did you just kick him?" Bob asked.

"Yes," said Spencer. "Ryan's a jackass. He has all the sensitivity of a cave troll."

"God, this is brilliant," said Ryan, stopping his cursing to beam at them both and rub his shin. "This totally calls for a new theme song."

"Don't fucking start," said Spencer.

"Yeah," continued Ryan. "With Brendon it was -"

"Ryan!" snapped Spencer. Ryan's mouth snapped shut with an almost audible click. "Just let me get a few things, Bob," Spencer said, leaving the room without looking at either of them. Bob shifted from one foot to the other and crossed his arms over his chest. Ryan stared after Spencer's retreating back for a long moment before turning back to Bob.

"So," said Bob, "Brendon's the little bouncy one, right?" Ryan nodded slowly, looking at Bob with a blank expression. "I guess that explains why he glares at me all the time."

"It's not," started Ryan, then stopped. Bob looked at him, saw the worry that he might have fucked things up hiding somewhere deep under his mask. Bob just nodded. He had known, maybe, though he'd never thought it consciously, that Spencer might be just as scarred and tired as he was. Maybe Brendon was a deep ache of a might-have-been for Spencer, the way Brian was for Bob.

"Don't worry about it," said Bob.

"Don't be an ass about this," said Ryan, with surprising ferocity. His fists clenched by his side. "Fuck, it was nothing. Nothing to do with you."

"_Nothing_ and _nothing to do with me_ aren't the same things," Bob said. He shifted his weight again, looking at Ryan steadily. "But I'm not going to be an ass about it anyway."

"I mean it," said Ryan. Bob understood, a little, and he could see the edge of anger under Ryan's careful calm.

"I do too," said Bob. The clatter of Spencer's footsteps down the stairs distracted them both, and Spencer came into sight clutching his messenger bag. Bob was reminded of the first night they had met, how Spencer had stood next to him with his fingers twisted in the strap of that same bag, waiting for him to lead the way to his hotel room. Bob could see so many changes in Spencer in just the few months since then.

"Let's go," said Spencer. "We'll talk tomorrow, Ryan," he added. Ryan nodded and shot Bob what Bob thought he probably hoped was a threatening look as he slipped out the door. Bob slipped his shoes back on as Spencer did, straightening and watching Spencer tie the last knot in his sneakers. He reached out and grabbed Spencer's wrist.

"Hey, I'm not gonna ask," he said. Spencer smiled just a little, not the full, joyful beam Bob had seen when he'd first arrived, but his shoulders seemed to relax a little.

"I'm not going to ask either," he replied. Bob tugged him closer, wrapping his other arm round his shoulder and pulling them together. Bob rested his face in Spencer's hair and took a deep breath before stepping back and leading the way to the car.

They were silent as Bob listened to the mechanical voice of the GPS and followed the instructions. The streets got busier as they got closer to the Strip, but Bob stopped before they got there. He handed the car over to a disinterested valet, tugging his duffel from the back seat and taking his ticket. Bob felt the silence stretch between him and Spencer. It wasn't tense, just anticipatory, like there were things they needed to say that neither of them could say just yet. Bob hoped that maybe he would be able to find the words once the door to the hotel room closed behind them, sealing them into neutral territory.

He let Spencer go into the room first, following behind him and toeing off his shoes by the door. Spencer did the same, dropping his messenger bag next to them. Bob left his duffel there too. He let his arms hang by his side, close enough to touch Spencer but not reaching out to do so. The last light of the afternoon spilled in the windows and just touched off Spencer's hair. Bob let himself look, let the moment burn into him, just in case this turned into goodbye.

"I like how you're there for me, how you look at me and listen to me," he said, voice hushed. Spencer's fingers rose and touched the curve of Bob's jaw in a moment of acknowledgement before dropping away again.

"I don't know what this is," said Spencer, just as quietly. "But it's honest. We don't hide things."

"Yeah," said Bob. "Are you gonna take a chance on happiness with me, Spencer Smith?" This time there was no huge smile, no giddy press of bodies together. Spencer looked grave, holding out both his hands in invitation, twining his fingers through Bob's when Bob put his own hands into them.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Spencer looked at Bob, steady and thoughtful. His hands were warm and dry in Spencer's own. "Yeah," echoed Spencer. "We can take a chance." It felt serious, more measured and meaningful than the desperate press of lips and the sharp plunge of a confession. There was a rhythm to it, the cadence of the words and the steady beat of their hearts.

"Good," said Bob. Spencer tugged on his hands a little, drawing him closer so they were just touching, hands still clasped together. Bob bent his head, fitting them together perfectly. They stood there for a long moment before Spencer moved, letting go of Bob's fingers to drag his nails gently up over Bob's palms and wrists. He kept moving, sliding his palms up and over Bob's shoulders. Bob moved too, sliding both arms around Spencer to rest at the base of his spine. Spencer let out his breath with a long sigh.

"We don't have to talk any more now, right?" asked Spencer.

"No," said Bob. His fingers moved, just a little, tracing idle patterns against the soft material of Spencer's sweater.

"Good," replied Spencer. "I think you should show me this nice hotel room you got for my seduction." Bob huffed a little laugh, pressing a quick kiss to Spencer's temple.

"Look, it's a hotel room," he said, not pulling back.

"I hear it has a hot tub," said Spencer.

"A hot tub sounds nice," admitted Bob, "but I think we spend enough of our time together trying to get one or other of us clean." He let his hands ease down just the smallest fraction, fingers curving under the hem of Spencer's sweater to touch his skin. Spencer smiled softly into the scant space between them and angled his face up towards Bob. One of his hands moved to card through the hair at the back of Bob's neck. Bob smiled back down at him.

"I like your smile," Bob said, his voice dropping lower. Spencer pushed forwards against him, just a little more. He wanted to be closer, he wanted to get right up against Bob and wrap them together, but he wanted to take his time, too. He wanted to build it slowly, making each move with deliberation.

"What do you want to do?" asked Spencer. Bob ducked his head a little further, brushing his lips over the shell of Spencer's ear. Shivering, Spencer couldn't help the little press of his hips closer against Bob. Anticipation curled through him.

"I brought some sheets with me," said Bob.

"Sheets?" asked Spencer.

"I just. I like you on my sheets," said Bob. Spencer watched the tips of his ears stain red and smiled, pressing his lips into Bob's throat. He liked that too, the thought of imprinting them together onto Bob's sheets, not the standard issue anonymity of hotel ones. He liked the way Bob wanted all of him, no denying the awkward parts, no shying away from the bits that didn't fit.

"I like the way you want me," Spencer said. "I like the idea of you taking them home and sleeping in them again, surrounded by the two of us together."

"Tell me you don't need to shower this time," said Bob. His voice had gone dark and rough and Spencer opened his mouth over Bob's throat in a gentle bite.

"No," he said. "Not yet. Let's put the sheets on the bed."

Bob pulled away slowly and Spencer let him go. His face was still flushed red and his eyes were full of intent, and Spencer felt his anticipation ratchet up another notch, watching him turn and bend to rifle through his bag. He drew the sheets out, dark blue and plain, raising his eyes to meet Spencer's. Breath catching, Spencer gazed back at him, at the look of hunger and want that was naked on his face. Turning, he led the way to the bed, tugging off the plain coverlet and blankets, pulling off the sheets and dropping them in the corner when the bed was bare. Bob fluttered the bottom sheet out and Spencer took the nearest corner. Working together, they smoothed the sheet out over the bed, hands sliding over the crisp cotton and pulling it straight. They took the pillows together, stripping off the old cases and piling them back onto the bed with their new ones on.

Standing on one side of the bed, Spencer looked over it to the other side, to where Bob was standing. He wanted to get naked now, to press Bob down into the midnight blue of the sheets and kiss him until his lips were red and wet, his eyes as dark as the cotton. He tugged off his sweater, catching the way Bob's eyes went to the strip of exposed skin as his t-shirt rode up. He smiled and pulled off his t-shirt too, enjoying the way Bob watched him. He popped the button on his jeans and eased the zipper down, but made no move to push his jeans off his hips.

Bob looked up at him, gaze roving over the jut of Spencer's hips, the way his fingers tucked under the waistband of his jeans. Spencer felt his nipples hardening under the chill of the air conditioning and watched Bob's gaze move up over them. He remembered the way Bob sucked them and played with them, last time they were together, remembered the way the bites on his stomach and hips had only just faded away a day or two ago.

Letting his jacket slide off his shoulders and onto the floor, Bob caught his bottom lip between his teeth and tugged impatiently at the buttons of his shirt. He added it to the pile of material on the floor and unbuttoned his jeans. His eyes met Spencer's as he lowered the zip and let them pool around his ankles. He shoved his boxers down his thighs after them and kicked them off. As Spencer watched, he kicked them off and crawled onto the bed, making his way across it on his hands and knees to where Spencer was waiting for him.

Spencer watched him approach, enjoying the sleek slide of muscle under his skin, the slight imperfections that made him real. Then Bob was in front of him, kneeling precariously on the edge of the bed, his fingers deft on the waist of Spencer's jeans as he shoved them down his thighs. The rough drag of Bob's palm over Spencer's cock, already hard, made him bite his lip to stifle a gasp. Bob tugged at the elastic of Spencer's boxers, sending them down too. Bob's fingers curled around Spencer's hips as he steadied himself and looked up into his face.

"What do you want?" Bob asked.

"I want to spread you out over these sheets and re-learn every inch of your skin. Then I want to ride you until we both come."

Bob licked his lips and Spencer leaned forward and tugged on his lip ring with his teeth before sliding his tongue into Bob's mouth, kissing him softly. He wanted to hold himself back and take his time, enjoying every moment that he had.

"Okay," said Bob, moving back the barest fraction. Spencer pushed him back by the shoulder, sending him sprawling onto his back. Bob laughed, spreading his arms wide and parting his legs, baring himself to Spencer's gaze with delighted abandon. Spencer wanted to go slow, but he promised himself that he would take his time next time. He crawled onto the bed between Bob's spread legs and tugged hard on one ankle, pinning it to the sheets and pressing his lips to the smooth skin just below the bone. He moved up with his fingers, gripping Bob's knee instead and biting his way up his inner thigh. Bob's laughter tapered off into a breathy moan and Spencer soothed his tongue over his last bite.

Moving up the bed, Spencer braced himself over Bob on his knees, straddling his hips. Bob kept his arms spread wide, turning his hands over to fist the sheets below him. Spencer propped himself up on one elbow and bent his head to nuzzle into the light hair that dusted his chest, moving over to kiss and lick over one flat nipple, enjoying the way it hardened under his tongue and how Bob moaned and arched into his touch. He snaked his free hand between them, palming over Bob's cock, hard and leaking against his belly.

"Fuck, I don't think I can wait," said Bob. Spencer lifted his head, looking at him steadily as he moved his hand. Bob's lips were red and swollen, a flush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. Spencer was sure he looked much the same, dark eyes and wet mouth, all his want and need showing on his face.

"Tell me you remembered lube," he said. Bob's eyes closed as he groaned, tilting his head back as Spencer twisted his hand slowly.

"In the fucking duffel," he said. "Shit. Can we? Like this?" He arched up against Spencer and let go of the sheet, one hand gripping Spencer's bicep, the other palming Spencer's ass to bring him closer and push their cocks together.

"Yes, fuck, yes," moaned Spencer as his hips jerked hard into Bob's, the grip of his hand changing to circle them both. It was dry and rough, but Spencer didn't care, dropping his face into Bob's neck and sucking hard on the soft skin there. He wanted to feel Bob come apart underneath him, wanted to watch him and listen to him and enjoy the way he was right there with Spencer through all of it. He was suddenly right up against the edge of his orgasm, gasping into Bob's skin and grinding down as his hand moved in feverish counterpoint.

"Fuck, feels good," said Bob. "Love the way you feel against me, love the way you make me feel."

"How?" demanded Spencer. "Tell me."

"Like you're right inside me, like we're inventing a new language of rhythm, like the moment I first hit a snare and the crisp rattle ran through me."

"Oh, fuck, yes," said Spencer. He bit down again, muffling his moan in Bob's skin before lifting his head once more, looking right into Bob's eyes. "You make me feel, fuck, you make me feel like I'm centre stage and the only thing you can see or feel or hear or taste." Bob's fingers dug hard into Spencer's skin as he ground up into each rocking thrust of Spencer's hips. He looked half wild, lost to the rest of the world. Spencer didn't care. He was so close he could feel the dull roar of sensation all the way through his skin. He pushed harder, twisted his hand again and again, until he shuddered over the edge, eyes closing in spite of himself, even though he wanted to watch Bob. Bob's hands tightened further, enough that he knew there would be bruises later, and he groaned as he joined Spencer over the edge, spilling over their bellies.

Spencer held himself up just enough to avoid squashing Bob, his thighs and arm shaky from reaction. Bob eased him off and to the side, tugging him close to lie pressed up against him. Their mingled come dried in itchy flakes on Spencer's skin, but Bob was warm and comfortable underneath him. He didn't want to move, not even to find a cloth.

"Jesus," said Bob, finally. He sounded somewhere between amazed and smug. Spencer smiled into his skin, sure that he would sound the same if he tried to talk. "I'm glad," he continued. Spencer didn't have to ask what he meant.

"Me too," he said simply. He was content to lie there against Bob and drift, letting the steady rise and fall of Bob's breathing relax him further. Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to Bob's shoulder before settling down again. Bob's hand carded idly through his hair and Spencer smiled. He'd never felt like this before.

The tinny strains of Bob's mobile started from the discarded pile of clothes. Bob cursed softly, but made no move to get it. Spencer started to laugh as he recognised the tune.

"Dude," he said, "romantic ballads of the 80s?"

"Fuck off," said Bob. "Gerard thought it would be funny, when I told him I was coming to see you. He reprogrammed them all, the fucker." Spencer started to laugh, rolling slightly so he could bury his face into Bob's side.

"The Cure? _Love Cats_?" he gasped.

"Fuck you," said Bob. "That's _his_ ring tone. You should hear what he picked for _you_."

"No, don't tell me," said Spencer. "I don't think I could handle it," He propped his chin up on Bob's chest and looked up at him, grinning widely. Bob smiled back down at him and rubbed his thumb over the curve of Spencer's cheek. "_So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty,_" said Spencer.

"_You know that I'd do anything for you,_" answered Bob, managing to keep a straight face. Spencer laughed and Bob tugged him closer for a kiss.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

January 2006, England

"Ryan!" shouted Spencer, as his phone started to pump out the synthesised melody of yet another 80s romantic love song. "You fucker, stop changing Bob's fucking ring tone." He flicked open his phone as Ryan doubled over with laughter behind him.

"Sounds like someone's having a good time," said Bob, voice warm down the line.

"If it wasn't so much fun watching him run from Pete Wentz, I swear I'd castrate him, but I don't think Pete would be quite as inappropriate if Ryan didn't have the package."

"I really don't want to think about that," said Bob.

"I agree. Let's spend our insanely expensive phone call minutes talking about how hot you are, instead." Ryan made a gagging noise behind him and Spencer flipped him off. He moved away, round the corner and into the empty dressing room of the venue, shutting the door behind him. "I'm alone now. How about you start by telling me what you're wearing."

"How about I tell you what you should be wearing?" asked Bob.

"Kinky," said Spencer. "Would you like to dress me up?"

"Like a doll," agreed Bob, solemnly. Spencer felt a warm bubble of happiness in his chest, just from the sound of Bob's voice and the way he always listened to what Spencer didn't say. "Are you going to get naked for me now?"

"We haven't played yet," said Spencer, reluctantly. If he couldn't have Bob there with him, then listening to the break in his voice as he talked about what he wanted and needed, and the things he planned to do to Spencer next time he saw him, was just about as good. With his eyes closed, he could pretend that it was Bob's hands skating over him.

"I don't want you going on with a hard on," said Bob. "I kinda like your cock the way it is, you know?"

"You're not helping me stay calm," Spencer retorted. "How about we talk about something else? What's happened on your side of the Atlantic?" Bob paused before answering, and Spencer could see him in his mind's eye, sitting on the couch in the bus or in his bunk, maybe.

"Brian's coming to join the tour for a few days," he said, finally. Spencer closed his eyes for a moment against the pang that gave him. "Gerard wants to see him."

"How's he doing?" asked Spencer.

"I haven't talked to him," admitted Bob. "Gerard says he's doing fine. As well as can be expected."

"I hope he's doing well."

"Shall I say hello to him from you?" asked Bob. Spencer heard what he was really asking, and the small knot of tension that had started to build between his shoulder blades dissipated as if it had never been.

"Yeah, you do that," he said. "That would be awesome." He liked that idea, that Bob was going to talk about them, about _him_. Like he was permanent. Even though Spencer knew that Bob wanted him, maybe even loved him, he still liked to hear confirmation. He knew that Bob would be able to hear the smile in his voice, and maybe the relief too.

"How's your band?" Bob asked. His voice was guarded now, like there was a little bundle of tension starting between his shoulder blades too. Spencer wished he was there to smooth it out.

"Ryan loves England. He dragged me to the British Museum. I was there all day, looking at crusty dead things."

"Just you and Ryan?"

"He says we need quality BFF time," Spencer replied. "He might have taken Brendon instead, but he was too hungover to move." He tried to keep his voice light and even, but knew he probably hadn't managed it. Some of his impatience and worry was sure to have leaked through.

"Hungover, huh?" asked Bob, and Spencer would have been deaf to have missed the undercurrent of anxiety there.

"I don't even fucking know what's going on with him," said Spencer. He didn't bother to hide his irritation, and knew that he couldn't hide his fear for his band. There was a short silence, and Spencer knew that Bob was probably fidgeting now. "I wouldn't change anything, though," he said, not waiting for Bob to ask.

"Nothing?" asked Bob. Spencer thought back over the last six months, and looked at where he was now. He laughed softly, leaning his head back against the door to the changing room.

"I'd make Panic tour with My Chem," said Spencer. It was the only thing he would change. He wanted Bob right there, so he could touch when he wanted to. "I'd ruin your reputation with your band."

"My reputation is for shit anyway," said Bob, and Spencer could hear the smile in his voice, the warmth and affection. "Gerard keeps changing your ringtone, each romantic ballad worse than the one before. I have no idea how he gets the phone." Spencer laughed too, wishing he could see Bob smile in person. He knew he would manage it soon enough, and they would wrap themselves around each other and hold on tight, pressing their smiles straight into each other's skin.


End file.
